Sucker Love
by Tjoek
Summary: "The first time he sees her is out in the school courtyard, cigarette smoke billowing from her nostrils like a furious dragon. He is surprised at himself for noticing her. He doesn't normally notice people, he observes them..." AU. Violate.
1. Prologue

A/N: Yeah, this is AU so just go with it. This takes place in 1993, for larger time frame, so that means Tate is sixteen, Violet is fifteen. Everything else will be explained as it goes along. There's no "Murder House", just fucked up people.

* * *

><p>Sucker Love<p>

Prologue

The first time he sees her is out in the school courtyard, cigarette smoke billowing from her nostrils like a furious dragon. He is surprised at himself for noticing her. He doesn't normally notice people, he only observes them as a child would an insect; from a distance and with a detached repulsion.

But unlike the rest of their peers, she doesn't creep or crawl, or try to blend in with her surroundings. She marches upright, insolent and fierce, through the crowd, her light brown hair whipping about the rim of her bowler hat like a lion's mane.

In truth she looks ridiculous. Her dress is too frilly and old fashioned to be worn with stripy socks and converse. She doesn't inhale properly either. Her small lips suck and puff furiously on the filter like it is a hookah pipe rather than a cigarette. However, he gets the impression that it is all deliberate rather than try-hard, she is not trying to emulate anybody.

He is not the only one to notice her. It is not long before she is apprehended by a valley girl in a short pleated skirt with a personal vendetta against cigarettes. As things quickly begin to turn ugly between them, he stays to see if her ferocity will last, or if it will break and fade beneath the intimidation techniques of a girl twice her social stature and size.

But when she spits in the face of her attacker, laughs, and with a twirl, goes running into the crowd away from the girl, something in the depths of the darkness inside of him, flickers into life.

* * *

><p>The first time he speaks to her is in the library.<p>

It is she who sits down opposite him, although she does not register his presence, absorbed as she is by the works of Byron.

The pretentiousness of her reading choice is not lost on him. He wonders if she is the type of girl to scorn the works of Plath and Salinger just because they are the particular favourites of their peers? Or if, like him, she needs darker, older words to appease the wicked monsters in her soul?

At first he goes with the former, it's hard to believe that someone so fearless can be plagued by darkness. It seems impossible, that is until she lifts her hand up to support her chin, and the lacy cuff of her sleeve falls down to reveal an angry score of puckered red and silver lines on her slender wrist.

All in an instant she becomes vulnerable.

It is not a weakness he despises. He is intrigued, curious to know what form her monsters take. Do they whisper in her ear in soothing tongues? Or are they raw and rabid like the demons who scream inside his own head? His own monsters are not the self loathing and depressed boogie men allocated to the lonely hours of adolescence. They give him dreams and thoughts, bad thoughts. The type of thoughts that eventually drove the cocksucker and Larry to send him to a psychiatrist for fear that he might act on them.

Eventually his blatant stare catches her attention. She snatches her arm back, hiding it under the table, but she does not pack her bag and flee like he expects her too. She simply stares back at him, eyes hard in an unspoken challenge as if she's daring him to judge her. He rises to it with an arrogant smirk and with a shrug, pulls up his sleeve and lays down his own battle scars on the table between them for her to inspect.

His scars are not pretty like hers but jagged and ruthless, as though the flesh has been ravaged by a wild animal. They are his prize, his victory over the demons and every time he looks at them, he cannot help but swell with pride. As she draws her gaze over his skin, her expression flickers from hostility to confusion, and then a spark of interest ignites her eyes.

"If you don't want anyone to know, you should cut lower down," His tone is casual, conceited even, but he feels anything but. He wants to impress her, he's never wanted to impress anyone before. "It doesn't give the same thrill as your wrists though. You never get that same rush from knowing that you might slice too deep."

Her lips part in a soft 'o' as she continues to stare at him, now with open interest. She's hanging on his every word, and he loves it. He relishes it. He has conquered where others have not; he is able to leave her speechless.

He quickly covers the marks as the Librarian walks by, but they continue to eye each other up like a pair of cautious animals. It is not for fear of attack, more out of curiosity. They are similar and yet so very different.

Once the man is gone, he speaks to her again, this time in a lower voice. "Do you know why you cut?"

"To feel?" Her voice is soft, just like the shape of her mouth and the curve of her jaw.

His lips curl. It's such a simple, naïve answer. One given by someone who cannot fully comprehend the power of their emotions. "Doctors used to bleed people while they were ill to release the bad, infected blood. It was called bloodletting."

She scoffs and makes a show of rolling her eyes. "So you're saying that we do it just to release the badness? Bullshit."

But she is impressed, he can see it. A part of him decides that he wants to keep impressing her, so that he can hear her inject that extra added bite of cynicism into her voice.

He smiles. "Why do you think you feel so good when you do it?"

* * *

><p>The first time the monsters comes out on her behalf, is after he witnesses her being thrown to the ground by three girls in the canteen.<p>

He does not interfere at the time, mostly because he fears what he will do on impulse. He needs to plan carefully, there are too many witnesses and besides, so far the library is the only place where they openly acknowledge one another's existence. He still doesn't know her name.

So he contents himself with watching her defend herself alone. She fights back amiably, all snarls and elbows. She even stabs the ringleader in the hand with a cigarette butt. Finally the jeers from the watching crowd grabs the attention of a nearby teacher, and she manages to flee to fight another day. Once he is completely certain that she is gone and that she has not seen him, he quietly takes himself off to the Senior girls' toilets and hides himself away in an "out of order" cubical to wait.

The bells for class and recess come and go, sneakers squeak in the corridor as the herds shuffle from room to room. He does not mind, if he has any admirable qualities at all, his patience is limitless.

Before the second last period is over, the ringleader arrives in the toilet by herself. He is relieved by this, it makes it so much easier for him not to have to deal with witnesses just so he can get to the main prize.

He creeps up behind her as she rummages through her bag frantically. So absorbed in her task is she, she fails to spot him approaching her in the mirror. It is only when he has her by the mouth and arm, and about halfway towards the open door of the broken toilet cubical, does she begin to struggle.

It is a pathetic attempt. He has her arm bent at such an angle that one wrong move on her part could snap it in two and every time she tries to bite his hand, he kicks her hard in the back of the knee. Her muffled cries reach a frantic pitch as she stares, revolted, down into the bunged up bowl of water, piss, shit and bloody period saturated toilet paper. He doesn't even give her time to scream before he shoves her face first into it and pushes down the leaver. People like her don't deserve such a courtesy.

It takes roughly two to three minutes before a person goes unconscious after being held underwater. To be on the safe side, he holds her down for two and hopes that she had the brains enough to take a deep breath beforehand.

Once the time limit is up, it takes every last bit of his willpower just to pull her head back out of the toilet bowl.

At first she doesn't react, her eyes are closed, her face is frozen with fear. Then a sharp shove against the wall and she springs back to life, gasping and choking as her need for oxygen collides with her desire to get sick. He grins as the vomit and toilet water bubble from her mouth and down the front of her cashmere sweater. Her back shakes, there's a puddle of urine between her legs; she's terrified. It's all gone swimmingly, but he isn't finished with her, not yet, not until he makes one thing absolutely clear.

She flinches away as he bends down on his haunches so that his eyes are level with hers. There's shit smeared on her forehead, vomit caked onto her lips. She's frightened of him, of what he might do. He won't do anything else, no matter how tempting it is. No matter how much he wants to... At least, not unless she gives him a reason to.

"If you ever go near her again; I'll drown you for real."

He doesn't need her name for the girl to know who he is talking about. He doesn't need to tell her what will happen to her if she tries to snitch on him either. This one terrifying, humiliating moment will forever remain a secret between the two of them.

He then leaves her, panting and sobbing on the tiled floor as he makes his escape through a window.

_To be continued..._

* * *

><p>AN: So admittedly I was a little over excited about finishing this and probably have not gone over it as carefully as I should have to check for mistakes. I will fix it in the coming days however. Because this is an AU, I wanted to start it off with situations you are familiar with from Canon, and then I will diverge into my own story from the next chapter onwards.


	2. Where is my Mind?

Sucker Love

Chapter One

"Where is my Mind?"

The first person he mentions her to is his psychiatrist, it makes him pause his notes.

He doesn't know why he chooses him. He doesn't even like the man. Doctor Harmon reminds him of a sad, workaholic and undersexed professional who is on the verge of midlife crisis with his gelled up boy band hairstyle, and top floor practice in a brand new office in Down Town Little Tokyo.

But regardless of the man's various failings, he mentions her to him anyway, and once he does he immediately wishes that he hadn't. It makes him feel like he has somehow violated her by including her existence in his therapy session.

"What is her name?"

He shrugs in response. Despite now having spoken to her on several occasions, he is still yet to learn it. He wants to though. Every time he comes away from an encounter with her, he curses himself for not remembering to ask. A part of him is afraid that the longer he leaves it, the more awkward it will become when he finally does. Like she might be under the impression that because of time gap, he thinks her unimportant.

"What is it that attracts you to her?" the doctor then tries.

Despite his wishes, the can of worms has been opened and before he knows it he is babbling, he can't stop himself. He talks about the cutting, her bravery, Byron, her funny hats and frilly dresses. He talks about the way her mouth curls up to one side when she smirks, like she knows certain secrets that are far beyond the understanding of normal human beings.

For fifty five minutes, all his thoughts and words are filled with her, and although it makes his head swirl with giddiness, it also leaves him terribly confused. He cannot place names to all the emotions that swell up inside of him every time he thinks of her. It frightens him a little. They are warm and comforting, so utterly alien to anything he has ever experienced before.

A soft hiss of air escapes the leather as Doctor Harmon shifts his weight in his chair. "During our first session four weeks ago, you mentioned that you often fantasize about killing the people you like..." There is a moment's pause before he continues, this time in a cautious, slightly concerned tone. "Do you experience similar thoughts when you think about this girl?"

The mere mention of such a thing makes him bolt upright on the daybed in startled revulsion. All of a sudden he's furious. It disgusts him, sickens him to the stomach. He wants to explain what it is he would do for her, what he _did_ do for her, but a little niggling voice in the back of his brain warns him against such a confession. Nearly drowning a seventeen year old bully in a blocked toilet is probably one of those things that is considered criminally insane.

So he settles instead for a one word response. He makes sure to pour all of his feelings of repulsion into it.

"_No._"

He wants to help her more than anything.

The doctor remains silent as he waits for him to regain control. It does not come quickly, and it does not come quietly either. Amidst the anger, his monsters howl on her behalf in righteous indignation. He harnesses them, pulling them in and steers them in the direction of the source of their rage that's sitting in the black leather armchair just opposite.

"You have to understand that I am under a legal obligation to ask these questions," Doctor Harmon tells him when he thinks that it is safe again to speak. "For your own safety."

He leans forward on his elbows, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "You're afraid that I might kill someone. Tell me, doc, would you feel guilty if I did? Would you blame yourself? I'm sure other people would. They might even make a news feature on it; "Troubled teen did not receive the help he needed, psychiatrist charged with gross professional negligence." Kinda has a ring to it, doesn't it?... So what's it like sitting on your ass all day listening to other people's problems? I bet you get bored. Or do you do it because it makes you feel good knowing that you're not one of the sorry suckers coming to you for help?"

Doctor Harmon's face remains impassive. "My job is not to judge you. It's to help you."

"But you do," he goads. "You can't help yourself. I reckon that your own life is so goddamn meaningless that you need to be surrounded by basket cases just to distract youself from it. It makes you feel important, but in actual fact you're just a parasite sucking on the misery of others."

He is left unsatisfied when the doctor does not rise to the bait. Instead, the man flicks over the pages in his file and with a cough, places the conversation back on track.

"You've said that by killing the people you like, you believe that you'll be sending them to a better place." He looks up from his notes, crosses his legs and clasps his hands together. "Why is she different?"

At the very mention of her, the warm feelings come back, and this time they bring with them a calm. It starts in his stomach and gently rises upwards throughout his body as if it is floating on butterfly wings.

"She shouldn't have to wait until she's dead," he begins with an unfamiliar awkwardness. "She deserves to be happy here, now... but she's not. All these assholes keep trying to bring her down. It really gets their backs up that she can just call like it is, straight down the line, no bullshit. They want to crush her for it... She's not like the rest of them and they hate her cause of it."

"Who's they?"

He pulls on his sleeve. "Everyone."

The doctor glances quickly up at the clock and closes over the file. "It sounds to me like you feel a strong desire to protect this girl."

"That's normal, right?" He searches the doctor's face, feeling more vulnerable and uncertain than ever before. "Wanting to protect someone, I mean."

Doctor Harmon slowly nods his head, but there's a worried look in his eye, as though something about what he has just said has disturbed him immensely.

* * *

><p>It is not the first time he has forgotten to take his medication, but the withdrawal symptoms are more severe than the last.<p>

He does not notice immediately. For the first half of the morning, everything feels completely normal aside from from the occasional twitch. By lunch time however, the paranoia sets in and he remembers that he forgot to take his pills during the chaos of the early morning rush. He foolishly decides to tough it out, and he does, admirably, until about halfway through Chemistry class when the hallucinations suddenly kick in.

First it starts with his hands.

Black, grey and white dots appear on the knuckles of the hand holding his pen. The colors spread outwards, as though they are being pushed by the strokes of an invisible paintbrush. Gradually they build in shade and texture until at last he is staring at a perfect anatomical reconstruction of his bones and tendons.

Fascinated, he reaches out the index finger on his other hand and runs it across the paintwork. It smudges into crimson, and when the wet blood begins to run freely down his arms, he drops his pen in shock.

Slowly, shakily, he raises his hands up to his face to inspect. It looks and feels exactly like real blood, warm and thick with the faintest scent of copper. He rubs his fingers and palms together, relishing the feel of its sticky consistency on his skin. It is not real, he knows this, he tells himself this. It is just a psychotic episode, but above the wailing rage inside his skull, reason is very hard to hear.

So he looks instead to his classmates for distraction, only to find death staring back. Bullets holes and stab wounds riddle their bodies. Flesh has been torn open to reveal the bones and the organs below. It's hypnotizing... maddening. He licks his dry lips as he watches the blood ooze from the exit wound in the back of the head of the boy in front of him. It stares out at him, as if begging him to make it real.

He cannot however, he does not have a gun and then he remembers that driving a bullet through his classmate's skull is not something that a sane person would do.

With this thought in mind, he gets up from his chair. No one notices him, not even the goth girl with the slit throat sitting beside him. It is only when he throws his chair through the window with a smash, that the whole class turns to look at him in all their gory glory.

Tearing his eyes away from the blood, he jumps up onto the window ledge. People are on their feet now. The teacher is running towards him, yelling something, but the blood that pours from her mouth and from the bullet wound in her jaw makes it damn near impossible for him to understand her.

He grips the window frame and with a push forward, he is falling, through the air, the green grass rushing up to meet him from below. His feet sting painfully as they hit it with a thud and he lurches forward onto the earth beside the chair.

He wastes very little time trying to gather his bearings together; there is not much of them left to hold.

And then he runs.

He runs until the skeleton paint vanishes from his hands. He runs until the cuts and the blood and the bullet holes disappear, the voices quieten and the monsters go to sleep.

And once it's all gone, he just keeps running; through the streets, past the houses and cars, knocking into pedestrians as he goes. His chucks slap rhythmically off the concrete for what feels like hours, until at last he feels the sand sink beneath his feet and hears the roar of the waves in his ears.

He collapses on the beach, mentally and physically exhausted, his arm thrown over his eyes. It is only when his heart stills and his breathing returns to normal that he remembers her.

He left her there.

He _abandoned_ her.

Despite the pain that shoots throughout his body, he pulls himself to his feet. He needs to get back to the school right away. He needs to find her and explain to her what happened, so that she understands and doesn't worry. He needs her to know that he would never leave her without a good reason.

But his legs won't let him. They are too sore from the abuse he has inflicted upon them. He takes a step forward and immediately his knees give out from underneath him. He pulls himself up, spits the sand out of his mouth and tries again, only to fall forward in a crumpled heap once more.

Over and over, and over again he tries, until at last his body can no longer move at all, and he is stuck, lying on his back, staring up at the endless expanse of blue sky above him in frustration.

Later he will be bundled into the back of a cop car and driven back home to the hysterical shrieks of the cocksucker. An hour following that, he will be dragged off to Doctor Harmon's office for an emergency assessment. By midnight he will be lying in a hospital gown, under heavy sedation in a psychiatric ward while his family fill out the paper work for his four day stay in the reception. And then next week he will sit in front of Principle Figgins with Larry, apologizing and promising that it will never happen again.

But that is then and this is now. For now he has to deal with the guilt of having left her all alone, until eventually his eyes close over and he drifts off into fitful slumber.

* * *

><p>The first time he sees her after the incident is behind the bleachers on the playing field during recess. It is also where he finally learns her name.<p>

Admittedly, the bleachers are not a place he normally frequents. He is there under self imposed exile, away from the pitiful looks and whispered scoffs that have been following him around all morning. No one has bothered to talk to him so far, which is good because he might kill them if they try.

The batteries in his disc-man have died, so instead he entertains himself with reading about how Raoul Duke and his attorney, Dr Gonzo blaze a streak of pharmaceutical havoc across the state of California. It is when the narration begins to spiral into fit of adrenochrome induced madness that she finds him.

"I figured you'd be here. It seems to be the place to go when you don't want to be found."

He snaps the book closed, lifts his head and turns it to look at her, all thoughts of Duke and his incoherent babble forgotten. She's wearing what appears to be a yellowy cream and brown wedding dress cut from a gaudy 70's pattern curtain, a grey cardigan and a black trilby. It all clashes horribly together, but the self assertiveness in her expression carries it off. He watches, fascinated, as she shrugs off her satchel and throws it on the ground before sitting down in front of him with her legs crossed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

There is no pity in her face, no mockery. He didn't expect to find any there. He still checks however, just to remind himself about how different she is from the rest.

"I didn't try to kill myself." It's humiliating saying it, but he has to. He wants to make it absolutely clear to her that he would never abandon her in such a way.

"I know." She thumbs a cigarette from the carton and places it between her lips. "Anyone who knows anything will tell you that you can't kill yourself by jumping out of a second floor window. Not unless you're really determined or just plain dumb. Want one?"

He declines. "I forgot to take my meds— The other day," he adds quickly.

With bated breath, he waits anxiously to see how she will react. He needn't have worried however, she appears completely unfazed by this new revelation. Part of him suspects that she might have anticipated it even.

"No wonder you jumped." It's sounds so normal coming from her, like it's nothing but a common, every day occurrence. "My Dad's a psychiatrist," she explains. "He sees it happen all the time. From what I hear, those things pretty much screw you into chemical dependency. Forget to take them once and you'll find yourself climbing up the walls like a coked up spider monkey. So where did you go? Afterwards like?"

"To the beach. I ran the whole way there, needed to clear my head. It's about the only thing that works when I... _things_ get crazy."

He doesn't feel the need to explain to her about the hospital. From the length of his absence she has probably guessed that already. The guilt from that day is still there. It gnaws away at his insides every time he looks into her face. She doesn't seem to notice however.

"When it gets like that for me," she says. "I like to lock my bedroom door and put Pearl Jam on full blast. Hole's good too, Courtney's voice is pretty pissy..." She falls silent, thoughtful, and when she finally brings herself to speak again, her voice is distant. "Do you ever think about it? You know... killing yourself."

Admittedly, he has never been one for suicide. His destructive appetites are more homicidally inclined. "It's not really my thing. You?"

She tilts her head to the side. "Sometimes, but then I remind myself that this world is for surviving."

The way she says it makes it sound so cool, like it's nothing but it scares him to think she has even considered it. Gently, he reaches forward and plucks her wrists from her lap, turning them over in his hands so that the scars face up beneath the material of her cardigan, and he pulls them onto his knees. Her fingers tremble a little but she does not try to resist. She is not frightened, only surprised.

"What's so bad about this world that it makes you want to leave it?" he asks.

A single word from her and he will take care of it, just like he did the valley girl. Whoever or whatever it is, he will make it go away so that it can never hurt her again.

"Moving state, high school bullshit, asshole parents." She shrugs. "You know the drill." But there is more to it then her pride and her strength will let her admit. He can see the tiredness lurking behind the fire in her eyes.

"Do they hurt you?"

She shakes her head. "No... they hurt each other."

He listens quietly, venturing only the occasional question or word of assurance as she tells him all about her life before and since her move to LA. For the remainder of recess, they speak of her father's infidelity, her mother's weakness and the replacement child that no one has bothered to inform her of.

They also touch a little on his own home life, but he finds himself wanting to shield her from that as much as possible. After all, life with the cocksucker and Larry makes the relationship between her and her parents look like something straight off the Brady Bunch.

It is only through listening to her problems, that he finally comes to understand why she cuts and contemplates suicide. It is not because she is sad or even psychotic like him, it is because she is angry. Her monsters are rage, and rage always leaves a helpless exhaustion in its wake.

Once she is done, she removes herself from his grip and fumbles around in her bag for a lighter to light her long since distinguished cigarette. The ghost of her wrists is still there however, weighing heavy and warm on the palms of his hands. He curls his fingers closed around them.

"Are you free this weekend?" she asks as she blows out a thick grey cloud. "To hangout, I mean. My Dad's away in Boston to see some ex-patient of his, and I'd rather not spend another night alone watching reruns of Dark Shadows or worse, watching them with Mom."

He nods and she quickly tears a piece of paper out of her note pad and scribbles down her home phone number on it.

"I'm Violet by the way," she says as she hands it to him. Her handwriting is unfittingly girly and refined. He folds it carefully and places it in the pocket of his flannel shirt to keep it safe. "You're Tate, right? I saw your name on the library card of one of the bird books you borrowed."

The fact that she is completely unapologetic about spying on him makes him like her all the more.

_To be continued..._

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you guys for all the amazing reviews on the prologue! I would encourage you to sign in so that I can write you a response. So anyway, I hope you've enjoyed reading this cause I'm certainly having a lot of fun writing it. Yes, Tate is _completely_ insane, but we all knew that already.


	3. Disarm

Sucker Love

Chapter Two

"Disarm"

The first time he meets up with her outside of school, they go on the Hollywood Murder House Tour. It is also the first time she sees his house.

It is he who comes up the idea, inspired after witnessing the cock sucker spray water over yet another open coach full of horror enthusiasts. However, he doesn't mention the idea to her out of some selfish desire to show her just how terrible his life is, it is nothing self pitiful like that. He suggests it because he wants to know if she can feel fear, and more importantly, if she wants to.

He calls her on that same day she gave him her phone number, no less than a minute after getting through the front door from school. It rings three times and then a familiar male voice answers, but he thinks nothing more of it when she comes to the phone.

She scoffs at first at the idea, but at the same time pledges herself to it almost immediately. It is she who picks the time and the meet up spot, he is more than happy to oblige.

He rises early on the Saturday morning, and stays in his room, his nerves wracking havoc on his insides, until at long last it is time to go. They meet outside the tour office, he in his favorite green and black striped sweater; she in a straw pork pie hat with a polaroid camera dangling around her neck. Together, they sit in the back of the coach as the sweaty faced guide takes them past 3301 Waverly Drive and the site where the Black Dahlia's body was discovered.

Outside of school, there is a softness to her edge; she laughs freer and harder, and smiles with her teeth. He knows that this is because she is not the type of person who will allow herself to be defined by her high school years. Westfield High is just a place she goes to, much like him, it does not know her and she will not let it.

For most of the tour he watches, captivated, as she takes snaps of the older, more wilted bouquets that have been left outside the crime scenes by sympathizers. He tries as often as he can to say clever, impressive things that will make her look at him and listen, _really_ listen. Not listening in the cold, analytical way of Doctor Harmon, but with both ears and eyes wide open like she can truly understand him.

He also tries to make her laugh. He likes it when she does, she puts her whole self into it with the way she leans forward, a little to the left, her mouth pulled wide to expose all of her teeth. Sometimes her body shakes so hard when she laughs, it makes him wonder if she is about go tumbling off the face of the earth and into the endless expanse of space.

He only half listens to the guide as he watches her, which is unusual for him. His obsession with all things bloody and dead stretches to the point where he feels compelled to chase after any information there is regarding a murder, no matter how old, like a smack junkie would a hit.

Finally they reach his house. It is the last stop.

As they pull up outside of it, he quickly scans the driveway to see if either of the cars are in. Thankfully they are not. He does not care if they catch him, he just doesn't want them to see her. They will try to speak with her, and they have no right in doing that.

The house itself is not bad. It is old and imposing with stained glass windows and creaking doors like something out of a real horror story. He likes the building in fact, and all the rooms, but he does not like the people who fill them, or more, he does not like two of them.

"Imagine living there?" she says about halfway through the guide's graphic description of the first owner, Doctor Charles Montgomery's illegal abortion clinic.

It is a story he has heard before and often, he has researched it thoroughly as well. As a child, he used to creep around the basement with his frightened sister, looking for the monstrous thing called Infantata. In the end, all they found were a few jars of pickled guts and other dead things.

Of course he hid them away at the time. To him they were the most wonderful treasures he'd ever seen, and if literature had taught him anything at such a young age, it was that treasures were to remain hidden. Admittedly he had long since forgotten about them, but now that he remembers, he wonders if he'll be able to find them again.

"Would it scare you?" he asks her.

She looks him straight in the eye. "No."

And he doesn't doubt her for one second. If he has learned anything at all from the tour, it is that she is not someone who fears the unseen. She needs the horror to be there, right in front of her, so that she can reach out and touch it. His thoughts turn once more to the jars.

"It's not that great," he tells her. "There's no ghosts and the owners are pretty shitty, plus the shower water's always freezing. I once found a jar with a baby's head in it down in the basement... that was cool. I guess some parts of the Montgomery story are true."

Originally, he had not intended on telling her that he lives in the red brick period house, but then he likes to spring things on her when she least expects it. It amuses him to watch the way her eyes widen and narrow so quickly at times. He knows that she likes it as well, the fact that she cannot pin him down, or predict what it is he is about to say or do.

His confession is met with a very long and hard stare. "...You live there? You're screwing with me." She searches his face for any deceit and when she finds none, her eyebrows knit together with interest. "..._Really?_" At his nod, she shrugs and raises her camera. "Say cheese."

There's an unhealthy swirl as the ancient machine kicks into life. The mouth spits out the undeveloped picture, she hands it to him but he shakes his head.

"I'd rather have one of you," he confesses.

Slowly, the left corner of her lips curls upwards in a Mona Lisa smile. "Take it then," she passes him the camera. "But you better let me see that jar sometime."

In truth he doesn't know exactly why her fearlessness fascinates him so much. Maybe it's because he wants to see if she is brave enough to stare into the eyes of the monster deep inside, and not flinch away.

* * *

><p>The first time a conversation about her happens at the dinner table, it is not by his own volition.<p>

He is not the one who mentions her. He never had any intention of ever telling his shamble of a family about her. She was supposed to be his _alone_; a safe house for his sanity that would make that one hour in the evening time allocated to family socializing almost bearable.

So when the cock sucker slips her into the conversation, somewhere between Shih Tzu breeding and the Mexican infestation, it takes all of his will power not to drive his fork through her eye.

"A girlfriend? That's wonderful," says Larry, all surprise. He's wary though, he always is. There's a small glint of fear hiding in the depths of his eyes as he looks at him.

His wife lets out a hiss of irritation. "A fine looking boy like him, of course he's got himself a girlfriend!"

Slowly the anger begins to bumble up from deep inside. He is not just pissed off because they now know about her. It's the absolute disregard they have for his privacy, _her_ privacy as well. His day had been going so well up until that point. It had been brilliant in fact, for the first time in a long time, he felt something remotely close to human. He takes a sip of water, only to realize that the hand holding the glass is trembling with rage.

"Is she a pretty girl?"

From across the table, his sister, Addie beams at him in her wide, childlike manner, her round eyes crinkled at the sides with curious joy. He tries to match it with the same enthusiasm, but the guilt in his gut makes it feel forced and awkward. He has not been a good brother to her. Back when the world was closing in on him, he used to imagine what it would look like if he were to slice open her throat.

Sometimes he still thinks about it.

He shakes it off the horrible thought, and tries at a smile again; this time it feels more genuine. "She is," he answers. He means it too, every syllable of it. "But she's not my girlfriend."

The cock sucker snorts and pulls out a cigarette from her purse. There's a faint click and a small blue and yellow plume erupts from the tip of her lighter. With a deep inhale, she leans back in her chair, her elbow crooked up like Bette Davis. She does not pay the slightest bit of attention to the way Larry's eldest, Margaret eyes the orange ember at the tip of her cigarette with fear. Nor does she notice when the other, Angela starts to visibly shake. Of course, neither does their father.

"Stop." He snatches the cigarette from her hand and dumps it in the jug of water, it distinguishes with a hiss. "You're scaring them."

She shoots him a shrewd look and with an elegant shake of her head, takes out another one. "Oh my sweet child," she sighs heavily. "The only thing those girls are afraid of is you. And don't take my cigarettes."

It's the truth, and it stings all the more because he cannot deny it. Of all the lies he has told Doctor Harmon, fantasizing about killing only the people he likes has been the greatest. There are plenty of people he hates that he wants dead as well; the cock sucker, his father and Larry certainly take the top spots there.

He's even tried to do it once, kill Larry that is, about three months ago, before the therapy and the pills. They help control it a little better now, but the desire to kill him, to kill _all_ of them, is still there. He doubts that it will ever go away. Sometimes he's not sure if he wants it to, and that scares him. It isn't normal and that's just what he wants to be, _normal_.

It is not as if he hasn't tried to stop his murderous urges. It is not his fault that his summer long diet of electric shock treatments and horse tranquilizers did nothing to quench it. It creeps up on him at times, in the quieter moments, when he's least expecting it. Sometimes the flashbacks are so vivid, he can even remember how warm and soft the flesh of Larry's neck felt beneath his hands as he tried to squeeze the life out of him.

"Tanya Stapleton's daughter says she's been seeing you with her all the time in school," the bitch continues. "And you're telling me that she ain't your girlfriend? People are going to start thinking that you're one of _those_ types of boys, Tate. Do you want that?"

He says nothing. He stabs at his peas with his fork, imagining that every little green ball is her head, or better yet, Larry's. He knows that he should be grateful towards the man for not selling him out to the authorities, but then Larry didn't stay silent on his behalf. He did it for the cock sucker. He'd do anything for her. He even abandoned his dead ex-wife for her.

"-I've said it once and I will say it again, all them girls will wanna throw themselves at you if only you'd allow yourself to smile every once in awhile..." She places a hand on his arm and he shoves it away, just the thought of her touching him makes his skin crawl. She is not deterred however, she goes on as though nothing happened. "How about you rejoin Track? Have you thought about that? You're a good runner, Tate, and the girls like athletes, believe me. You are so good in fact, that Polak coach from your school has been calling the house nonstop since the start of term asking for you."

Although he continues with his refusal to interact, he does allow himself to smirk a little. The glory days of his freshman year have long since turned to dust. He burned them, quite literally, trophies, kit and all, in the furnace down in the basement the moment they moved back into the house with Larry. He knows that she still keeps some of the burnt relics upstairs in the drawer of her vanity. He found them there one time while he was searching for razor blades.

It had made him angry at first. He had very nearly thrown them out in the trash just to be free from the shackles of her expectations once and for all; but then the poetic justice of if all stayed his hand. Burnt and warped by the heat, they were no longer a reminder of happier times, but of the boy she destroyed.

Even five months after his discovery, he still checks the drawer every now and then just to see if they're still there. It fills him an enormous sense of self-satisfaction to know that every time she looks at them, she will have no one to blame but herself for what he has become.

"What's her name?" asks Larry between a mouthful of ham.

He glares in reply. That is one thing that he will not give to them. Not now, not ever. He cannot bear the thought of her name being mangled by his mother's acidic tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the cock sucker rolling her eyes at her husband.

"Oh bless me Lord with patience..." she mutters at the ceiling. "So when will this young lady without a name be coming over?"

"She won't," he finally speaks.

This makes her sit up straight. "And why not?" she demands. "Aren't you going to introduce her to your family?"

He stares at her incredulously. "Why would I do _that_ to her? I like her— Sorry Addie," He glances at his sister who smiles. "You'll meet her someday; I promise. You too," he nods to Margaret and Angela.

Through the bumpy, melted skin on her face, Angela shoots him a shy smile. Margaret keeps her head down however and pushes around her carrots on her plate with her less burnt hand. She is older, more afraid, and rightfully so, she had been there when everything happened.

"Ha!" The cock sucker's hand shakes as she takes a sip of her white wine. "You want to introduce her to a Mongoloid and two cripples that aren't even related to you by blood? Do you want her to think your entire family are the starring act of a freak show? Good Lord does your spite know no bounds?"

He puts down his own drink and wipes his sleeve across his mouth.

"Aren't we though?" he replies in a cool, disaffected tone, he feels anything but however. His legs shake underneath the table. Larry touches his neck nervously, the girls are frightened, even Addie has sunk down low in her chair to hide. "-Isn't that why you made sure no one will ever see Beau? Tell me, how long is it going to be till you have Addie carted off as well because she doesn't fit into your picture perfect—"

She slams her hand down so hard on the table that her purse of cigarettes falls off and onto the floor. There is a tense silence. Everyone is looking at him, watching, waiting for him to snap. He does not, he _will_ not, not this time. He won't give her the satisfaction of that this time, no matter how much the demons inside him roar for it.

Larry coughs awkwardly. "Well, I have to say that this ham, Constance is-"

"_Do not!_"

His compliment dies a short death on his lips and he retreats back into nervous silence as the full fury of his wife's rage finally breaks upon her son.

She raises a trembling finger towards his face, her voice barely above a whisper. "...Do not try to blame that on me. _How dare you?_ They took him from me! I would never..." She draws in a ragged breath and blinks back the tears forming in the corner of her eyes, some of them fall regardless.

He watches, cold and emotionless as she pats them away with the tips of her fingers. It's impossible for him to feel anything towards her anymore.

After a few sharp breaths, she gathers herself together, and then with renewed fury, she turns to look at him once more. "Now you listen here and you listen good; you are all _my_ children. My babies, you got that? Other mothers would have tossed your brother and sister out with the bath water without a second thought-"

"Well, aren't you just a saint?" he snarls.

"I would _never_ give any of you up willingly, no matter how hideous or disfigured, or _selfish_— Get back here!"

He quickens his pace at the sound of her footsteps thundering behind him. He's had enough. All communication should have died between them the day she married a swine and let his brother be taken away, she just hadn't read the memo.

His bedroom door slams closed behind him with a bang. He turns the lock just as her fists collide with the wood.

"How long, Tate...?" her voice cracks, exasperated and broken from behind the door._"_How long are you going to go on _punishing_ me for? I-"

He doesn't hear the rest of it. He presses the play button on his stereo and the distorted guitar cords of Nirvana roar into life. He cranks up the volume until it's at full blast, until at last her sobbing and his own murderous thoughts are all but drowned out. She does not linger in the corridor for long, it's pointless, she understands that by now. He will not come out again until morning, by which time she will have smoothed over the cracks in her mask once more.

About five seconds into the first track, he sits up on his bed and goes over to his CD rack. He runs his fingers over the plastic cases as he searches, deliberating quietly to himself over which band he wants to listen to more, Pearl Jam or Hole. Eventually he picks one, presses the stop button, opens the stereo and replaces the CD.

As Eddie Vedder's dragging baritone fills his ears, he relaxes into it, knowing that at some point, maybe not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, but at sometime in the not so distant future, _she _will be listening as well.

The Polaroid snap he took of her that afternoon, smirks out at him from above his desk. As he looks at it, he grins back.

* * *

><p>The first time he goes over to her house is on the Sunday morning following the latest in his disastrous family dinners. He meets her weak mother at the door, he's polite to her, just because she warned him to be so before hand.<p>

He also brings the jar with him. He found it hidden behind a loose brick in the basement. It now sits on her desk beside her ornamental birdcage while he studies the contents of her bookshelf.

He is not surprised to find that her collection is largely made up of autobiographies, popular cult fiction and classics, with very little fantasy or romance to be seen. There are no old toys in her room either. She is the type of person who probably, on the eve of her first day in Junior High, gathered her childhood up in a plastic bag and tossed it out onto the curb for the garbage truck to collect.

He admires her all the more for the conscience decision she has made to move into adulthood. He finds it interesting that she would readily do something people twice her age meet kicking and screaming. Growing up by definition is not something left up to individual choice however, it is done out of a necessity to survive. He becomes all the more mindful to this, the second he catches sight of the purple framed family photograph sitting on the top shelf.

Once he sees her father's face, everything falls into place. Even with the unfamiliar happy and relaxed expression in his eyes, Doctor Harmon's square jaw and boy band hairstyle are unmistakable.

The sudden realization that she is his therapist's daughter does not shock him as much as it probably should do. She has told him once before that her dad is a psychiatrist, and their surnames are also the same, and now that he thinks about it, the male voice who answered the phone only a few days before could not have been anyone other than him.

He quickly moves his attention away from the photograph, and picks up her already well read copy of the Virgin Suicides. He tries to read the first page but he can't, his concentration is in tatters.

No matter what, he cannot tell her, not yet at least. Not until she knows that she can trust him, and he has already, no matter how unintentionally, violated her trust by telling her father about her self harming. He didn't mean to, he didn't know. It's all his own fault though, he had a feeling at the time that he shouldn't have spoken about her, but he did anyway. In fact, none of this would have happened if only he had remembered to ask her name earlier. He's furious with himself for being so stupid and he swears, over and over again, that he'll never mention her in another therapy session. He swears it on his life.

"What's eating you?"

A confession nearly leaps straight from his mouth at the sound of her voice, he stops it just in time. He can't tell her, she'll be angry for sure. She'll hate him.

"Earth to Tate?"

He turns her head towards her. She's smoking out the window but she's lit no incense or sprayed no air freshers to help counteract the smell. The door is locked however, and although she has done nothing other than that to disguise the fact that she's smoking, he gets the impression that in her household, cigarettes are considered a greater sin than underage sexual activity.

"Me?" he counters with, trying to look as natural as possible.

"C'mon, I've told you everything about me, and I know next to nothing about you. I don't even know your surname."

He closes over the book and slips it back into its place in the shelf. If he acts normal then maybe she won't notice a thing, and then he won't have to worry about telling her. He can just pretend like he didn't know when she finds out. Acting normal is his thing, he's good at it. He's gotten away with it for years. It's not right though, in fact it will probably make things worse, and he really doesn't want to lie to her.

"I thought you got it from my library card," he says eventually.

She arches an eyebrow. "You're handwriting's crappy, I could barely make out your first name."

He laughs because it's true. He's never had the best handwriting in the world, it looks more like a gyrating spider has dipped its legs in ink. Doctor Harmon would probably say that it is a reflection of his deeply disturbed mental state. The thought makes him frown.

"It's Langdon." he answers, and it's not a lie. So far he has not lied to her which is good. It was the cock sucker who put his name down as Harvey on the medical form. Turning his back from Doctor Harmon's smiling face, he walks towards her bed in an effort to place as much distance between himself and the photograph as possible. "It's my Dad's."

She needs no further explanation. He's told her that much at least, and besides, she's intuitive enough to know what he means. Flicking the butt out the window, she sits up against her brass headboard, her legs stretched out in front of her.

"Do you ever see him?"

He stops by the foot of her bed and shakes his head. "Nope. He's got a new life now in Florida now, new kids too. His wife sends me a card and my mom a cheque every year on my birthday with no return address. She probably knows that she'll hunt them down with an elephant gun if she ever writes one. Her and Dad do all of their talking through their solicitors."

"I thought you said your mom remarried as well?"

"She did..." He pauses for a moment while he deliberates over just how much of his history he should tell her. He decides against most of it in the end, he does not want her to be scarred as well. "It wouldn't stop her from killing them though..." Sometimes he wonders if his homicidal inclinations were a hereditary trait, it would certainly explain a lot. "When I was six, she was the prime suspect in a missing person's investigation surrounding a maid of ours who went missing from our house..."

She waits for him to continue, but when he doesn't, her eyes widen in almost comical shock.

"Geez! No wonder you're on meds."

He smiles. He likes it that she thinks he is on drugs so that he can cope with the world, and not the other way around like most people do. She is kind that way.

"They later found the maid, alive and well, in Florida with my Dad," he then continues on. "They're married now. She seems nice from what I can remember... used to smell like lavender and bleach— You wouldn't think she'd be nice cause of what happened— What she _did_ and all," He adds, glancing into her face. "No one ever tells you that they can be nice..."

She is angry however. She glares back at him. For one terrifying moment, he fears he is caught, that she knows all about what he said to her Dad, that she knows how he's betrayed her.

"You asshole, you deliberately said it like that just to fuck with me," She revels in his uncomfortable confusion. She has finally gotten one up on him.

Relief hardly covers the mixture of feelings which flood his stomach as he stares down at her. He decides then and there that he will tell her eventually, when it's right that is. The probability that he will run into the man while he's with her is too great to ignore, and he wants to be around her as often as he can. What he needs is time so that he can think of a way to tell her without making her angry or worse, hurting her.

More than anything else, he really doesn't want to hurt her.

He drags the toe of his sneaker across the floor. "...You said your Dad cheated too, right?"

"With a twenty one year old student." She tries to shrug it off but she's tired. Life's hard knocks have left her with the world weariness of someone twice her age. "...He's a dick."

Normally he would have given himself a pat on the back for his near accurate synopsis of Doctor Harmon's character, but he finds no victory in it this time. His therapist is not just some sad, middle aged loser desperately trying to cling to his lost youth, he is _her_ father, and she deserves so much better than an adulterous scum bag like him. Before he knew who he really was, the good doctor was already floating precariously on the surface of his contempt, now he has sunk far beneath it.

His demons group together and between them, they make a new category of people they desire to kill, and they put Doctor Harmon's name at the very top of it.

_To be continued.._

* * *

><p>AN: Remember, the house is of no supernatural importance in this fic, so just forget about that, and there's no ghosts just crazy, crazy Tate. Things that I've touched upon in this chapter, such as Tate's various issues with his family, his hatred of Larry, etc, etc will be explained as we go along. Think of this as an introduction to it. It's a lot of information, and it would just read like word vomit if I dump it all in one chapter. Plus, that's not how you tell a story.

Thank you guys for the overwhelming response in your reviews. Really, thank you so much. You're all brilliant. It's great to know that you like it so far. As before I would encourage you to sign in because that way I can write you a personal response.


	4. Daughter

Alternative Universe Fanfiction; saving doomed ships since the 1970s.

Suck Love

Chapter Three

"Daughter"

The first time he sees her in something other than a hat and a dress is on the playing field, although it takes him a few moments to recognize her. Without her armor, she's looks more displaced than usual against her surroundings. The white and navy of the school assigned PE uniform does nothing to suppress her spirit however, nor does it stop her from smoking despite Coach Adamski being only a few yards away.

Once he realizes that it is her, his legs break out into a quick run. By the time he reaches the cross wire fence, all thoughts of his Trigonometry class have been banished from his memory.

"First windows and now fences," she says as he drops down on the grass beside her. "You really are a spider monkey. Thanks for dropping in unannounced by the way."

He flops down on his back next to her, his satchel beneath his head. "Did I scare you?"

She rolls her eyes as she stabs out her cigarette. "You're about as terrifying as a team of blind nuns."

He grins, and gives her the once over. The shorts and t-shirt are not unattractive on her, but it's all wrong. The cut of the cloth is almost too confining, and the colors too tame to properly represent the full spectrum and texture of her personality. It makes her look like a zebra who's had its black stripes painted white just to hide amongst a wild of horses.

Misinterpreting the meaning behind his stare, she sneers her thanks and leans back against the fence, one arm clamped across her stomach.

"You don't look bad," He cocks back his head as he looks up at her. "But I prefer your real clothes."

Her irritation melts in an instant. "...Sorry." She breathes a heavy sigh and runs her hand through her hair. "I'm just in a pissy mood." Her eyes are blood shot, her movements, sluggish and heavy. He is willing to bet that she hasn't had a wink of sleep.

"Mom read Dad's phone bill last night," she says eventually. "I heard them arguing about it in the kitchen..." She pulls her knees up below her chin and rests her head on them so that her face is turned towards his. "He's been in contact with that girl again. I bet he went to see her while he was in Boston... I really hate him some times."

There's new cuts hidden underneath the bandana on her wrist, he doesn't even need to see them to know. Instinctively, he reaches up and carefully disengages her arm from around her stomach. He cradles her wrist between his hands, scars upright, her arm laid across his shoulder and down the length of his torso so that her hand rests on his abdomen. She doesn't fight, she doesn't look at him either, but she shifts a little closer towards him.

The more he gets to know her, the more it sickens him that she needs to do this to herself. It's not just because the scars are a constant reminder of how he betrayed her, he already feels the guilt of that enough every time he looks at her face. It is because scars are ugly things, they belong on ugly people, or those who are bent and twisted on the inside like him. She is none of these things, the war she wages is against outside forces beyond her control. The pain she feels is really the rightful property of those who surround her, but since they do not suffer, she has to do so for them.

"Just cause they're your parents doesn't mean you have to like them," he tells her. "It's okay to hate them, I hate mine."

The corners of her lips pull downwards in a frown and she stares out at the girls running relays. She's not looking at them though, not really. Her mind is caught up somewhere in the snow and the grey of her former Boston life. He sometimes wonders what she was like before, if she was in anyway different, or if she has remained much the same, only now she has been tainted by the bitterness of life's disappointments.

"I can't," she admits. "He's my Dad."

He stays silent as he processes this. He cannot deny that it is difficult for him to understand how she is still able to love her father after he betrayed her so badly, but then he has never held any tender feelings towards either one of his parents. The closest thing to it he can think of is his sister, the desires he has to kill her at times, and the guilt which stops him from doing it. In that, he gets the conflicting emotions she must experience when it comes to Doctor Harmon.

His fingers graze the nook of her elbow, run over the rough cotton of the bandana and down into the palm of her hand. Since the first time her took her wrists in his hands, he has continued to touch her whenever the opportunity presents itself. It's nothing vulgar, just an innocent and comforting caress of the hand or arm when she's in need of it, or whenever he feels compelled to do it, which is often. He _wants_ to touch her too, the sensation of her skin beneath his finger tips always fills him with a pleasant tingling sensation.

She never reacts, never says anything, nor does she try to pull away. She likes it, he understands her disposition well enough by now to know that if she felt in anyway uncomfortable, she would tell him straight away. It's possible that she craves it just as much as he does.

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

"So why are you sitting out?" He looks up. She seems more relaxed now, content even.

At his question, her expression slips back into its usual sardonic smirk. "You know that weird kid who no one talks to and always gets picked last? Well, that's me."

He frowns at this. His short but brilliant career in track insured that during his freshman year, he was never first or last but always seated comfortably in the middle. This may have changed however, self admittedly, he has not taken a single PE class since the start of term.

"Fuck them. You don't need them. I'm here now, aren't I?"

She casts him a soft smile. "The coach usually just throws me in somewhere at the end anyway so it's not like it actually matters. Today I fed him some bullshit about cramps so I'm excused... Where are you supposed to be?"

"Trig...If it counts for anything," he hears himself say, his eyes still locked on hers. "I'd pick you over anyone else in this shit hole any day."

"As if you've any_ real _choice to pick from," comes her sassy reply, but she's flattered, her cheeks are flushed ever so slightly.

"C'mon," He tugs on her hand as he climbs to his feet.

She doesn't pull away but she remains seated on the ground. "Where?"

"Some place better; I promise."

He waits patiently outside the changing room while she dresses herself, and afterwards he takes her to the beach. They sit on the sand, talking about everything and anything, and when it turns dark, he lights a fire. At half ten, he walks her to her bus stop and waits with her until it comes.

He is in a euphoric mood as he makes his own way home, he even whistles cheerfully to himself.

* * *

><p>The first time he sees Doctor Harmon after finding out that he is her father, he realizes that he will have to switch therapist. Never has he felt a more violent urge to kill an individual, not even with Larry.<p>

He knew before he set foot in the building that it was a bad idea. He's known for days now, right from the very moment he saw the photograph, but he chose to go along because he wants to see what he can do. He wants to know if there is a way to punish the man for what he has done, hurt him in the same way that he has hurt her.

Killing the doctor is not an option however; it might make her sad.

But it's hard not to give into the urge, it's utter torture in fact. For once his mind and his demons are in perfect agreement, it is the thought of her that holds him back. He clings to it desperately, but regardless of how hard he tries to stay in control, he finds himself checking the office for potential murder weapons; a stainless steel lamp, a glass paperweight, or his own personal favorite, a small gold photo frame that's sitting on the desk. He likes it because the likely chances are that it contains a picture of her, that would be very fitting.

If he had a choice though, he would use a knife, preferably one with a short handle so that his fist would slam against Doctor Harmon's flesh as he drives the blade into him. He would slice the tendons in his ankles first, then his hands, and finally he would turn him over on his back and stab the blade into him one more time, right in the stomach to release the toxic, acidic juices stored there. It would be a slow and agonizing death by all means, one meant to inflict just the right amount of suffering on the man.

"Is there a reason why you are quiet today?" Doctor Harmon asks as the clock hits the ten to mark.

His jaw clenches as he continues to stare up at the ceiling, it's the man's fifteenth attempt to engage him in the past fifty minutes. So far he has said nothing, partially because he fears that he will snap if he does, partially because he keeps drawing blanks about what it is he can say that will really get under the doctor's skin. If the man knew about his friendship with his daughter, it would be so easy just taunt him with talk of screwing her six ways to Sunday. After all, no father wants to hear that his little girl has been soiled by another man, no matter how untrue it is.

"Maybe you feel that I have done something to offend or anger you in some way?" The doctor says, trying yet another exasperated line of approach.

Again no response.

"...Did something happen with that girl?"

He sits up to attention, his eyes narrowed. "I don't want to talk about her with you anymore." His tone is clipped, biting, with no room for left for further discussion.

Doctor Harmon stares back at him meaningfully with his blue eyes. "You know you are safe to talk about anything you want here. The conversations that go on here-" he brings his hands up to his chest. "-_with me,_ will not leave this room. You have my word on that."

He thinks about this for a second, and suddenly he is struck with an idea. "...Anything at all?"

"_Anything._"

He settles back against the low, curving back of the day bed, his eyes locked firmly on the man's face. There's several days worth of growth on his chin, dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looks as though he has been suffering, but it's not enough. He has not suffered enough.

"Adultery then," he begins, crossing his legs. "I want to talk about adultery."

Doctor Harmon rubs his finger over his lips. "I remember that you mentioned before that your father-"

"It's a scummy thing to do to the people you love, isn't it, doc?" he cuts him off. "If you _really_ care about someone, you would never do that to them. You should never hurt them like that, cause that's what loving someone is, right? Not hurting them..."

He watches carefully for the slightest change in the man's demeanor, but the doctor remains as stoic as ever.

Unsatisfied, he goes on. "And all this crap about trying to make it work and staying together for the kids? ...That's _bullshit!_ It doesn't work; it _never _works. Kids don't forgive a thing like cheating, they can't. Take me for example! My Dad at least had the decency to leave, but I hate him, I really fucking hate him. I hate the fact that he's out there, right now, living his life as though nothing has happened. People who cheat don't deserve a second chance, they don't deserve to be happy. You know why they don't? Cause it's a sin. Adultery is a goddamn sin that even God can't forgive."

He lets the words sink in a little before he leans forward, his eyes still locked on Doctor Harmon. The man looks uncomfortable now, and rightfully so.

"...There is a way though," A cold smile rises slowly through his face. "A way of making it right, a way of redeeming yourself. Do you know what they do in parts of Asia when a person dishonors their family, hurts the people that they love?"

"You're referring to honor killings, I see."

He smirks to himself. Doctor Harmon is many things, though stupid is not one of them thankfully.

"_Suicides_ actually," he corrects him. "Some people _choose_ to end their lives willingly after they betray their family, because it's the only way to really prove to them that they still love them. It's nobel when you think about it, _selfless_ even. Your family can move on and be happy, knowing that you were willing to pay the ultimate price for their forgiveness-" He drums his fingers off his knee. "-cause if you really care about them, you would go kill yourself."

There's a crack and the pen in Doctor Harmon's hand snaps in two, ink spills all over his notes. As the man curses and tries to salvage the pages, he does his best to appear completely oblivious to the exact cause of his violent reaction. Doctor Harmon doesn't seem to suspect a thing however, he is too wrapped up in his own guilty conscience to notice anything around him.

Eventually the man gives up, he throws down his pad and broken pen on the coffee table and bends over, his head cradled between his hands. After a few moments, he releases a muffled sob.

It's a funny thing to him, sitting there, watching a fully grown man unravel right before his eyes. It's a powerful one too, the knowledge that he is the cause of such a thing, and so very satisfactory. He did it, he knows the secret. His demons howl in victory within him; there is a way to punish Doctor Harmon after all.

Finally, the doctor gets a grip of himself. He wipes his face and with a deep inhale, apologizes profusely for his behavior. He looks frightened more than anything else, terrified that the very world as he knows it is about to crumble to dust around him.

No more than five minutes later, as he walks out the door at the end of the session, he prays that the doctor will do the right thing and kill himself, otherwise he will have to do it for him.

* * *

><p>The first time he sees her speaking to someone other than himself, is in the corridor between classes. It's another girl, a goth with blonde hair and fetish for spiky jewelry. She seems relaxed in the conversation, but he is quick to reach her side just in case, and he makes sure to wear his most intimidating glare.<p>

"Stephanie, this is Tate," she introduces him as he steps up beside her. She takes one look at his face before adding. "...Is something up?" Her brow knits in confusion.

"I've got Chem next," he lies.

Her eyes widen in realization, she turns back to Stephanie and gives her an excuse about needing to get something for him from her locker.

"Is she bothering you?" He asks as soon as the other girl is gone.

He doesn't mean for it to sound forceful, but it does. It's only because he's worried about her. Her previous treatment at the hands of a certain group of girls at Westfield High has been far from humane. That threat has long since been dealt with, but he is more than willing to step in and stop another one before it even becomes an issue; without her knowledge of course.

But she shakes her head. "Chill, Tate. She's nothing like those bitches. She just came over to talk about music and stuff. She asked if I wanted to hang out this Saturday. Apparently there's some band from San Fran playing. She says she knows someone who does fake IDs for twenty bucks."

Suddenly he is seized with a jealous rage, the monsters are angered at the idea of having to share her with someone else, especially after she promised, she swore that she would hang out with him that night. They begin to whisper to him, offering him suggestions about how he might deal with this new found threat.

But he pushes them down, ignores them. If she wants to go, so be it. If it will make her happy then he will not stand in her way. It is in that moment that he realizes he cares more about her feelings than his own. It is both an enlightening and terrifying discovery; he's never felt that way about anyone.

"Oh?" he says casually.

"Yeah, but I told her I was doing something with you that night." She looks up at him. "And there's no way I'd blow you off for some crappy nu metal concert. Lou Reed on the other hand? _Maybe._"

A smile cracks across the width of his face. It's new and it's very frightening, not to mention confusing as well, but when he looks at her, hears her speak, he forgets all about it and he just wants to kiss her.

_To be continued..._

* * *

><p>AN: Gotta love Tate logic; "Can't kill her father? Can't beat him up? Try to convince him to commit suicide instead!" He's a keeper alright.

Again, thank you for reading and for all the lovely reviews. Please remember to sign in so that I can write you a response.


	5. Drain You

Sucker Love

Chapter Four

"Drain You"

The first time he has to come to some sort of compromise just so he can continue to be near Her, is in Coach Adamski's office.

It's nothing sexual, despite the homophobic mindset he has inherited from the cock sucker, he kind of wishes that it was. At least that way he could get the fat bastard locked away for child abuse. But Coach Adamski is not demanding sexual favors, or even pushing drugs, he simply wants him to run Track again, and to go back to Phys Ed class before he is forced to fail him.

However, the two hour slot allocated to Phys Ed on the Friday afternoon, has now been replaced with Her double study period in the library. No matter what, he will not give that up, because he's greedy like that. He wants to be near Her as much as possible.

He will have to compromise, even if it means making the cock sucker happy by default. It brings him absolutely no pleasure in doing so, but such sacrifices are needed. He also needs to make a lasting impression that will ensure Coach Adamski forgets all about seeing him in another Phys Ed class for the rest of his High School career.

So he starts to cry.

He doesn't collapse straight away into a sobbing mess. He still needs to be able to articulate himself. If the circumstances call for it, he can and will be prepared to do so however. It's not hard, he can practically cry on demand after so many years of practice. From experience he has learnt that it is often better to play the lamb rather than the lion, especially around adults. They eat that shit up.

But as his eyes begin to water, he finds his thoughts drifting to how it would feel if he never saw Her again, and it is more than enough to make him incredibly distressed.

"Kid! What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer, he stares down at his feet, hands gripping his upper arms as he rocks backwards and forwards, the tears falling freely from his eyes. He tries to ignore it, it's not real, it hasn't happened. If it ever did happened, he would find Her, unless She no longer wanted him to be around, and then he wouldn't know what to do.

"Is someone bullying you?"

He wants to punch Coach Adamski. The man is talking too much. He's not being bullied, he's never been bullied. It's an utterly ridiculous notion because if anyone ever tried to touch him, he'd kill them. He's just sad, because he's worried about what will become of Her, if he's not there to take care of Her, if someone tries to take Her away from him.

A fatherly hand on his shoulder snaps him back from his dark thoughts. It is clear from the troubled expression on Coach Adamski's face that his tears have worked, almost too well in fact. He cannot claim it is because of his marvelous acting skills this time however.

"I know you've been having a tough time," says the man in his gruff but kind fashion. "I heard you were in hospital over the summer and after what happened with that window, well, I'm not surprised to hear you've been getting some grief— Not that you deserve it. You're a good kid... Do you want to tell me the names of the guys responsible?"

And then he remembers what it is exactly he is supposed to be doing.

"I can't..." He pulls on his hair, wipes his eyes and slowly looks up into the man's face. "..._Please_... Please, don't make me go back to Phys Ed... I _can't_... I'll run track! I'll do anything! _Just please!_" He wrings the sleeves of his sweater between his fingers in distress.

"That bad, huh?" The Coach takes off his blue cap and rubs his bald patch. "Okay, kid, I promise you that I'll talk to Principle Figgins about it, and we'll be able to reach some sort of agreement. Hell, if you run track again that'll more than enough to cover your credits. You've got a 7:21.36 best in the 3k, and that's no mean feat. C'mon, you're a champ. First class Olympic material, kid. Don't let those guys get you down, you hear me? You're better than that-"

He only vaguely listens, nodding his head once or twice with a grunt as Coach Adamski tries to stuff him full of winning bullshit. It's too easy, way too easy for him to slip in and out of emotions. It's almost as if he is trying on clothes. Sometimes it makes him wonder if there is another person inside, or several, but the truth is nothing so simple as multiple personality disorder. They are all him, just different parts, fragments that were supposed to make up a proper human being, a good one, but then someone forgot to glue them together.

"-I know what's going on. I seen it happen hundreds of times before, kid. I get it that you feel that narking might make the problem worse but you know, if you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

He nods, mumbles his thanks, and after recovering himself to a satisfactory enough standard, Coach Adamski lets him go.

As he walks down the corridor, a large smile splits across his face. He has one less thing standing in the way between them now.

* * *

><p>The first time he preforms in front of an audience for Her, is at their usual spot underneath the bleachers.<p>

It's not really an audience, only Stephanie, but he still has to put in some effort.

They are there already when he arrives. The goth girl gives him a polite greeting as he sits down, but he can see the ridicule lurking in the depths of her bluish grey eyes. Since the Chemistry incident, he has acquired a reputation as the resident suicide case.

She greets him with a warm smile however.

For the most of their conversation he stays silent, out of angry protest that Stephanie has dared to infringe upon his time with Her. But he also wants to see what type of girl she is, and if any of his original impressions were correct.

He is a little disappointed to find that they are. Admittedly, he would have preferred to have been proven wrong, just so he could believe that She also has an impeccable taste in friends. But then he remembers that unlike him, She is kind, and therefore more suited to putting up with the mindless drivel of their peers.

He is very careful not to roll his eyes as Stephanie prattles on about vegetarianism, Wicca and why her favorite poem by Edgar Allen Poe is the Raven. She is one of those individuals who likes the idea of the darkness, but only in a clean, safe sort of way. The blacks she wears are a homage to it, but she would never dare to invite the darkness in, nor has she ever been held by it. Stephanie had one admirable quality, her sharp tongue, but it is callous and cruel without the humorous edge he admires in Her.

It is only when She mentions that he has joined track during Stephanie's tirade about jocks, that he is forced to interact. He keeps the explanation very short, without the crying and twists it so Stephanie believes he is being blackmailed into it, just for his own general amusement.

He's also pleased to see that despite knowing a truer version of what really took place, She goes along with it. It is possible that Stephanie is grating Her nerves as well, or it might just be because she is feeling vindictive today.

"I'd totally drop out if I were you," says Stephanie the second he is finished. "I'd rather shoot myself in the head than have to run around after a bunch of numbskull jocks."

He's very tempted to take up the offer on her behalf. In his opinion, Stephanie would look good with a bullet lodged in her temple, blood matting up her blonde locks, her skull and brain exposed.

He doesn't give a damn about their various cliques, about the who verses who, or the clothes they wear. As far as he is concerned, variety doesn't play a deciding factor in the culling fields. They're all the same; walking sacks of meat, whose one purpose in life is to shit where they eat. Really it would be so much kinder on all of them if they were all dead.

There is of course one exception; Her.

He pushes down the beasts and flashes Stephanie a smile. "The only time I'll ever run after any of them is if I have a shotgun-" They laugh because they assume that he's joking, so he lets them think that. "-Other than that? _They'll_ be running to catch up with me... What does it matter about jocks anyway? Don't give those shit heads the time of day. If you join a school sport just to be popular, or to kid yourself into believing that you're a part of something important, then you've just signed up to be an asshole for the rest of your life. And honestly? I feel sorry for them. I mean the best memories they'll ever have will be of High School. How shit is that? After this they're gonna have no options cause let's face it; Survival of the fittest is dead-"

He looks up to see them both watching him intently.

"I tell you something though-" he looks at Her. "-it's people like us who have it made. We can be anything, do anything we want. We can create art, or write music and poetry, or even whip up a whole nation into revolution using words alone... cause unlike the body, a great mind hasn't got a sell by date."

He keeps his eyes on Her for a few meaningful seconds after he is finished. In his opinion, She could really be anything, She could save the world from all the shit and the piss and the vomit. If there were more people like Her in charge, the world really would be a better place.

"Why aren't you in drama?" asks Stephanie in awe. "God knows they're in desperate for someone who can actually act. I was in it for like a week, and then I quit cause they all fucking suck. If you join, it might actually be worth going back to."

"I don't like the idea of pretending to be somebody else-" He's lying of course, he does it all the time. It's kind of fun to fuck with Stephanie like this, because she's lapping it up like water. "-Don't you know that the two types of people you can't trust in this world are actors and psychopaths?"

"Eh, Tate? You forgot to mention compulsive bullshitters. You deliberately say things a certain way just to fuck with people's heads." She looks at Steph with a sigh. "Langdon is the King of bullshit, Steph. Consider yourself warned."

He shoots her a goofy grins in reply. She is still yet to contradict the story he told Her friend. She can be mean too, for Her own pleasure, and maybe for his as well. He likes that.

For the remainder of recess he is both charming and charismatic because he knows She would like him to be nice to Stephanie. For the most part the girl just stares at him in dumb shock, or nods and makes a nasty comment at someone else's expense when he says something she agrees with. It's only when he takes his stories too far, She interrupts with a cynical comment or a snort of 'bullshit', but he doesn't mind. It means that She is listening, and that is what he wants.

At the end of it all, Stephanie insists that they both go with her to a concert on Halloween, and promises that she will get them fake IDs.

He agrees to go because She wants to. It's all for Her after all; the pretty speeches, being nice to Stephanie, even the agreement with Coach Adamski to rejoin Track. Everything he does is for Her, because he wants to be close to Her. He wants to stay with Her, and he wants Her to feel the same way.

He never wants Her to go away.

* * *

><p>The first time She comes to his house, he does not arrive until about halfway through Her visit.<p>

She calls on the Thursday afternoon while he is out at his therapy session, and the cock sucker invites Her in.

When he comes through the door, he's in a good mood. He slashed the tires on Doctor Harmon's car, although he wishes he had cut the breaks instead, but that might get him charged with murder, and then She wouldn't like him anymore. Still, the gratifying knowledge that he has inconvenienced him is more than enough to amuse the monsters.

His mood quickly fades however, when the cock sucker calls him into the kitchen about a visitor. Much to his horror, She's sitting there, around the island, a cigarette in hand, with a somewhat bemused expression on Her face as though She cannot quite comprehend what it is She has gotten Herself into.

Immediately, his glare lands on the person he is supposed to call his mother. One by one, the monsters begin to snarl.

"Oh don't start, Tate," the woman snaps. "I haven't done anything to the girl. She came over while you were at your session— You'd swear he thinks I'm going to make a show of him," he hears her whisper to Her.

It becomes imperative that he gets Her out of there immediately, before the cock sucker says something that will force him to snap. Without a word, he grabs Her by the arm and yanks Her off the chair. She drops the cup She is holding with a smash, while the cock sucker screams after him about how only "colors" manhandle ladies.

Once outside, he has to take a few minutes to collect himself, to stop himself from running back in and battering the woman to death with her tea pot. She watches silently, Her arms folded across Her floral print maxi dress.

"You're pissed, aren't you?" She asks as he paces up and down the porch for the twentieth time. "I shouldn't have come over."

His head snaps at this. "_What?_ No! Of course not!" He closes his eyes and winces at the roughness in his tone. "...Sorry. Are you okay?"

"Well, the scars will heal in time but the untold emotional damage may last forever— Just kidding," She assures him when he tenses.

The muscles in his back relax a little. He's not happy. He did not want them to meet Her, ever. Every fiber of his being is calling on him to go in an enact sweet bloody revenge on Her behalf. Instead he places his hands on either one of Her upper arms and stares down imploringly into Her eyes. The warm light brown of Her irises help to calm him.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," She says, in all seriousness this time. "I would have called but someone conveniently forgot to give me their phone number. I gotta say your mom is-"

"An evil racist bitch?"

"...Very politically incorrect," She settles for after a pause. "But since you know her better, I'll go with what you said. Guess we're both pretty fucked on the parents front. Although your mom seems to think that the sun shines out your ass for some reason-" He rolls his eyes at this. No matter what he does, the cock sucker will forever be convinced that she can live her life through him. "-Do you mind if I stay over tonight?—I already asked your Mom. Mine said it was okay too. I kinda got into a fight with my Dad last night on the account of him being a shit head."

He's not sure whether or not he should be happy. On the positive side, he'll get to spend more time with Her than usual. On the negative, he has his family to deal with, but he can easily hide Her away from them.

Their evening is spent mostly up in the attic, away from the prying eyes, playing scramble and eating pizza. Addie joins them of a while, but soon leaves when they decide to watch "_Nightmare on Elm street"_. Fond as he is of his sister, he is selfish when it comes to Her, and therefore deliberately pulls out a selection of movies that Addie will not enjoy just to get her to go away. Margaret and Angela keep themselves out of sight, although he has a feeling that this might have something to do with the cock sucker.

It's lady's choice. He usually prefers the stoic, silent killers of the seventies, whereas She likes anything with a strong female lead. He does not complain however, because he is eager to be impressed by anything She likes, because maybe She has a different interpretation of it. As the movie progresses, he quickly discovers that they both can appreciate a good murder, although Her thirst for blood is more out of a genuine desire to scoff in the face of fear.

And later, while everyone else is in bed, they sneak down stairs with torches and liberate a half bottle of whiskey from the drinks cabinet in the living room. After that they trip off, hand in hand, to explore the decaying grottos and rusty cages of the old, abandoned Griffith Park Zoo.

Midnight to the blue dark of early morning is spent wandering through the empty enclosures, hollering animal calls back at one another, while they laugh at the absurdity of man's attempts to mimic the natural world.

And although he holds Her hand tightly in his the entire time, _She_ was the one to put it there. Maybe it it is just the whiskey mixing with his meds, but for Her to take the initiative for once makes him feel needed, wanted in ways that he has never experienced before.

He misses more than one chance to kiss Her that night, and he kicks himself for it afterwards. But then he wants to do it when She least expects it, like when She's angry. Because even if She does not like it, She will, at the very least, appreciate the surprise.

* * *

><p>The first time he trips the school fire alarm for Her is seconds before the class bell rings at the end of recess on the Friday.<p>

It is not to impress Her. Despite Her nihilistic outlook on life, thoughtless acts of delinquency bore Her at best. She prefers it when there is a target, and justice to be served.

He does it because She is about to fail a test, algebra to be exact, and because it is his fault that She has not prepared for it.

When she came over to his house the day before, she brought with her school books, but due to their late night excursions, they remained untouched. The next morning, at seven am, when they dragged themselves from their respective sleeping arrangements, She suddenly remembered about Her test that day, one which counts towards her overall grade.

Because it is important to Her, and because it is largely his fault that She was out so late, he blows up a row of lockers with a firework.

It's all a sequence of lucky coincidences really. In the run up to Halloween, there's more fireworks knocking about Westfield than in a "Slitty eyed Sweat Shop" as the cock sucker might say. For reasons he's never really understood, the entire student body like to indulge in a week of pyromania appreciation.

Very rarely do the fireworks get set off, unless the person responsible is looking to end their Westfield career with a bang. Most of the time the students just like the idea of having something potentially dangerous on them, as if they believe that it will somehow make them dangerous as well. It's completely pathetic, because real monsters do not need to carry around any props. They are very good at adapting to their surroundings.

He is about halfway towards his History class when he spots the fuse of one sticking out the side of someone's locker door. The corridor itself is busy, most of his fellow classmates are up ahead, waiting outside for the teacher to arrive.

Without stopping, he pulls out the zippo that he carries on his person purely for Her benefit, and lights the wick with one downwards flick of the thumb. No one notices, he's very good at making sure they don't.

As he passes the locker, he deliberately knocks shoulders with one of the passersby, and allows himself to be shoved roughly to one side; It gives him enough time to light the fuse.

About five steps away, he quickens his pace to make it look as if he's hurrying to class. About seven steps away, there's a ear piercing screech, followed by a thunk as the lifting change launches the shell into the air and comes into contact with the top of the locker.

He forces himself to freeze for a mili-second, and casts a surprised look over his shoulder, just to appear as though he is as much an idiot as the rest of them. He only keeps the position for a moment, because he has a strong feeling that it is not the only firework sitting in locker.

A bang later, and the corridor lights up like the fourth of July.

His suspicions about the amount of fireworks were correct; blue, yellow and red sparks shoot out in waterfalls amid the flashes and the bangs. The fire catches on very quickly, accelerated by the gun power and paper, it licks up through the gaps, spreading from locker to locker, and more fireworks go off.

Within minutes the whole corridor is a blazing inferno of black smoke and screams. In retrospect, it's a good thing that the chair board are yet to invest in CCTV, otherwise he would be in a lot of trouble.

People are rushing everywhere, knocking into him as they run for safety. The sprinklers have come on but they are of little use. There's people hurt as well. A boy is lying on the floor, dazed, his forehead split open from when the locker door was blown off its hinges and hit him. Other people are injured too, nothing deadly but there's a few nasty burns and some people have been hit with flying debris such as pencils.

Everything is fire and blood, and he is the one who caused it. He knows that shouldn't satisfy him, that it's wrong, but he cannot help the chills of pleasure running up and down his spine as he grazes his eyes over the mess he has made.

So he turns away from it, allows himself to be carried along by the panicked crowd. He even helps support one of the casualties, the boy with the gushing forehead, out towards the emergency services lining up by the front of the school.

No one looks at him, no one guesses. Any monster worth his salt can adapt to any situation after all. They can change the tone of their voice, arrange their expression to mimic that of the human next to them, and therefore easily hide themselves amongst the masses. But most of all they are good at pretending, even to themselves, that they are not the thing that lurks beneath their skin.

He finds Her outside, scanning the fleeing crowd with a worried expression. When She spots him, She smiles and with one hand, waves him over.

All at once he feels human again; She can never, ever know.

_To be continued..._

* * *

><p>AN: I wish I could say that _that_ is the worst he is going to get... And I also feel that I should point out that none of the characters are particularly nice in this... Apart from Addie and Vivian.

Once again, thank you all for reading and for all your feed back on the previous chapters. Please remember to sign in before you review so that I can write you a response. Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and the best New Years!


	6. There is a Light that Never Goes Out

Sucker Love

Chapter Five

"There is a Light that Never Goes Out"

The first time he nearly runs into Her father at Her house is on the Saturday night.

For weeks now, he has successfully managed to avoid discovery by climbing up the rose lattice to Her bedroom window. She suspects no ulterior motive behind his actions, but rather thinks of it as just another one of his little quirks. Out of all the rooms in the house, thankfully Hers is the safest because She usually keeps the door locked for smoking purposes.

For the most part Her parents leave Her to Her own devices. Vivian, Her mother, is usually too engrossed with baby books and alternative health articles to pay Her much attention, and Her father often works late at his downtown practice.

Very rarely does he venture outside the safety of the soothing teal walls of Her room, unless he is absolutely certain that Her father is not home, or is in desperate need of the bathroom. It is because of the latter that he nearly walks straight into the man's back.

Her bedroom is situated just around the L bend at the end of the corridor on the second floor landing; which is both a blessing and a curse in terms of location as it is the furthest room away from the bathroom, and the corner also makes it very difficult to spot any surprise visitors from afar.

The second he sees the Doctor's back curved around Her door, he about faces and rushes back to the bathroom, as quickly and silently as his feet will carry him. With one hand he locks the door, and sinks down onto the lip of the bath, his head cradled between his hands.

It's becoming increasingly more difficult to justify to himself why he has not told Her yet. Part of him hopes that if he keeps silent about it, then the Doctor might forget and the problem will just go away. He could always break into the man's office and steal his file. It's an attractive idea, but it will take time and careful planning, and he certainly cannot do it tonight.

His sneakers tap agitatedly against the tiled floor as he drags his eyes over the shampoo bottles in an effort to inspire himself. He cannot stay in the room for long, She might come looking for him. What he needs is a reason, a good one, to get Her away from the house and Her father.

The sound of the phone ringing comes as a godsend.

He listens, barely breathing, as the Doctor closes Her bedroom door and walks down the corridor into his own room to answer it. Once he is sure that the man is safely distracted, he wastes no time unlocking the door.

But as he passes Her parents' room, the Doctor's frantic, whispering voice forces him to stop in his tracks.

"...I thought we had an understanding?" He hears him hiss.

Inside the darker beasts are screaming at him to flee, to snatch Her from Her room and speed off into the night, but curiosity wins out. He peers through the gap between the door and frame, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

"-Yes, but we agreed that it would be best— Yes, I know but I don't have the money— Yes, _I know_, but we've got to be realistic here..."

He watches the Doctor pace up and down, his face obscured from view. He doesn't need to see it to guess his expression however. Clearly the caller wants something from the man, so he decides to stay a little longer to find out what it is. Maybe he can use it against him later.

"-I'm married, and this is not going to change that— I know! _I know! _But is keeping it really the best thing for its future? It's a simple procedure, thousands of woman do it each year and go on to have children in later life... I _already _have a family to support, I can't just-" Doctor Harmon flops down on his bed and pitches the bridge of his nose. "Now-now don't cry... Just take a deep breath, and... and lets try to think about this rationally, Hayden..."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who it is exactly that the Doctor is talking too, or about what. He forces himself away from the door and back towards Her room, but before he enters Her, he has to take a few moments to get the monsters back under control.

Although he now has a way of getting Her out of the house, potential blackmail material against Doctor Harmon, and a whole new reason to hate the man, it still feels like an ill gotten gain. He never wanted it to be like this. When She finds out, it will hurt Her beyond belief, and he never wants to be the one responsible, no matter how remotely, for bringing Her pain.

But now that he has a clearer idea of the situation, he knows that very soon the Doctor's guilty conscience will be more malleable to his suicidal suggestions. It is the very least that he can do for Her, short of killing the man and his pregnant whore.

With that thought in mind, he bundles his killer intent back up into its box for another day. As he walks into Her room, She looks up from the collection of Calvin and Hobbes comics on Her lap, a cigarette in hand. For a second, his breath catches in his throat at the sight of Her looking so blissfully unaware. He doesn't want to tell Her. He wants Her to stay like that forever, to never have such a sweet expression marred by anger or bitterness, or pain.

But he has to, in case the Doctor catches them together and then Her most carefully guarded secret will be exposed.

At the worry on his face, Her brow creases with concern and She closes over the book.

"What's up?"

He swallows and scratches his head. "I heard your Dad talking to someone and I thought that it was your Mom, so I knocked on the door and went in to introduce myself-" She shakes Her head in amused disbelief but Her smile soon fades when he goes on. "-He didn't notice me, turns out he was in the middle of a full blown argument over the phone..." He drags the toe of his sneaker over the sheepskin rug on the floor. "That girl, you know, the one he had an affair with... She wasn't called Hayden by any chance?"

The impact is instantaneous: She goes very still at first, and then with a furious shake of the head, She stabs out Her cigarette on the windowsill and jumps off Her bed.

"I can't fucking believe him! I bet you anything he gave her the house number."

He watches in silence as She yanks an ugly navy, pink and grey aztec knit cardigan from its hanger, and pulls a large brown leather backpack out from underneath her desk.

As She rushes about the room, throwing things into it, he swallows the guilty lump forming in his throat. He could argue with himself that it was the right thing to do, letting Her know, but She's hurt. He knew that this would happen, and it's making it very hard for him not to go straight into her parents' room and strangle Doctor Harmon with the telephone cord.

"I'm staying at yours tonight-" She tells him as She throws a pair of tights into the bag. He nods dumbly in reply and tries not to look too pleased about it. It's better reaction to the news than he previously imagined. "-I'll meet you out front. I just want to get something."

He doesn't have to wait for long. She wants to get away from the house as quickly as possible, which is understandable given the circumstances. He hasn't even told Her the worst of it yet, but he will, because maybe it will lessen the pain She might feel when Her father finally caves to his suggestions and kills himself.

As he watches Her run down the steps, buckling Her noticeably heavier bag closed, he decides that he will become the one thing that She'll ever need, the one person that'll never let Her down no matter what. It'll prove difficult, mostly because he has already lied to Her so much, but he knows that he's only really lied to protect Her; maybe that explanation She will be able to understand.

Their get away is delayed only by Her mother's return from the shops.

"No." Is She all She answers with when a surprised Vivian asks Her if She has gotten permission from Her father to stay over at his. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Without waiting for a response, She grabs him by the hand and pulls him off in the direction of his house. He doesn't really understand why She chose not tell Vivian about the call. It could be out of loyalty towards Her father, or maybe it is because She hopes that nothing will come of it.

He then feels even more guilty because he knows that he will have to tell Her the rest, and that it will put Her in an even worse situation where She has to decide whether to tell Her mother, or to keep Her father's secret.

She doesn't have to choose either though. She doesn't have to forge a painful alliance that'll only crumble into dust as the years progress. She can choose him, and he will never let anyone or anything hurt Her ever again.

* * *

><p>The first time he sees Her cry is that same night amongst the burnt out ruins of the former Olive View Sanitarium.<p>

They do not go to his house straight away like originally planned, neither of them are in the mood to deal with other people. So they decide instead to take a detour to the crumbling red brick in Sylmar, in a hope that maybe they can lose their respective selves in the emptiness.

They get a fire going from a stack of old patient files, trash and two old ceiling beams that have laid hidden beneath a pile of rubble for nearly half a century. She provides additional lighter fuel in the form of two photograph albums She smuggled out of Her house in Her bag.

When he asks Her what they're of, She flips over the front cover of one of them to show him. Immediately his stomach sinks when he sees the words, _'My First Photo Album_' printed across the front. It pains him to think that She wants to destroy Herself as well.

"I've got their wedding ones too," She waves the slimmer, white album with a gold leaf motif around the edges before his face. "Can you believe my Dad used to have mutton chops?"

But She doesn't show him, maybe because She is afraid that She might fall prey to nostalgia. Instead, She opens the wedding album in the centre and chucks it on the fire, photos down, so that it can burn from the inside out. They watch in silence as the plastic wilts and blackens beneath the heat, releasing the pungent smelling chemicals into the air.

He gets why She is doing it. It's for the exact same reason he burned his old Track trophies and kit; She wants to destroy all evidence of the lie She has been living up until now, because that way it won't hurt so much when everything falls apart.

But the thing he identifies with the most is the cold look of satisfaction that plays upon Her pretty face as She watches the flames destroy the early days of Her parents' marriage. He knows that another part to Her personality has been born that night. One that, in its own way, can be petty and cruel and twisted like him. He finds himself wondering just how deep She will allow this vindictive streak to run within Her, and if it's rage will be allocated to Her parents alone.

But as She goes to throw the other album containing Her own photographs, he quickly snatches it from Her.

"You don't have to burn them all," he reasons with Her furious gaze. "Only the pictures with _them_ in them are the lie, Violet."

She think about this for a moment. "Fine," she sighs. "But if there's any of me sitting naked on a potty, I'm burning it." She snatches the album back from him with one hand, and sits down between his sprawled out legs with Her back turned to him so that he cannot sneak a peek. "I'm glad I got to do this before my Mom decides to be weird and show them to you," She announces after a moment.

"Why would she do that?"

She casts him a brief glance over Her shoulder before tossing another photograph on the burning pile. "She thinks we're dating. Showing baby photos is just the type of embarrassing shit parents do to protect their daughter's virtue."

Now that the idea has been put before him, the concept of dating Her makes complete sense. He'd like to. It would give him an excuse to kiss Her whenever he wanted, amongst other things. The problem is he is unsure of what She wants, or whether She even thinks about him in such a way.

"Would you mind if we were? Her showing me the photos," he adds hastily so as not to leave the wrong impression.

"Probably. Nothing quite spells turn off like seeing your girlfriend in diapers."

"I think you look good no matter what you're wearing."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "You are aware that we're taking about my toddler self here? As in under the age of _two_? And even if we weren't, diaper fetish is creepy..." He knows that he has lost his chance to check, for no sooner does She make that comment, She begins to speak in a more serious tone. "...Did you happen to hear what they were talking about? If they were planning to meet up somewhere or something? You know, my Dad and that... _bitch._"

Slowly, reluctantly he begins to tell Her about the exact details of the conversation he overheard. He doesn't try to gloss his interpretation of it over. It's not something that can be lied about because sooner or later the truth will come out. And as he speaks, the thought dawns on him that maybe if he tells Her the truth about the big things, the important things, then maybe She will be more inclined to believe him when he lies about the small ones, or forgive him at least when She finds out.

The firework incident is still fresh in his mind. No one saw him, of this he is certain, but he's worried that She might be able to see through him. She can see through just about anything if She looks long and hard enough. Nothing ever escapes Her.

And then he will lose Her.

"If it's his then that means he went back to her again after Mom caught him... So much for a brand new start!" She shakes Her head bitterly when he finishes. "I can't believe she was so goddamn stupid and naive to take him back— and now she's pregnant too..."

Then it hits him, the horrible realization that She is about to cry. She tries not to, blinks it back, fights it with all Her might but She's on fire. She's burning up just like the photographs and it's terrifying, when all he can do is watch.

So he does the only other thing he can do, that he knows to do, he wraps his arms around Her and pulls Her down on top of his chest so that Her face is hidden against his t-shirt. He holds Her there, keeps Her safe, allows Her to cry where others have not. He won't tell a soul about it, to do so would be unforgivable; a lioness is not supposed to have any weaknesses after all.

He will allow Her them though. He will protect them and keep them a secret from the glaring eyes of the world. And even if it all falls down around Her, he will be there to put Her back up on Her feet again.

Eventually, She dries Her eyes on Her sleeves. He takes care not to watch while She does it, because he knows that She would not want him to see. Instead he busies himself with tracing circles with his thumb on Her back.

"I hate it here," She says after a pregnant pause. "I don't ever want to be like any of them, Tate."

"You won't. You're too smart for that," he reassures Her. "Don't believe that shit they tell you about turning into your parents, that'll only happen if you let it. You don't even have to finish High School if you don't want to, but you should," he then adds. "Cause you're smart. Just take what you need from _that_ and them, and then get the hell outta here. I'll even go with you, I promise... Don't let it get you down, Violet, cause life in LA isn't real; it's a goddamn horror show. Look at Hollywood! Look at Santa Monica! It's all the same fucking fake, plastic bullshit created by the entertainment industry to exploit the minds of the stupid."

She laughs suddenly. It sounds strange at first because for a moment there, he was afraid that She would never laugh again. Thankfully his fears were unfounded because laugh She does, and it is as marvelous and as genuine as ever. It does not last for long however, She's conflicted. She has to decide which parent she wants to back.

"I wish there was a third option," She groans after a moment.

"There is," he says seriously. "_me._" He means it too, he wants to be the only person that She'll ever need, the only person that She'll ever think about. He wants Her to think about him as much as he thinks about Her. "-I'm the one here for you, right? I swear that you'll always have me to rely on. Leave your parents to sort out their own shit. It's not your problem, don't blame yourself for it and don't let yourself get caught up in it either. I don't with mine."

She nods, a small smile playing on Her lips. "...So it won't bug you if we hung out in yours rather than mine? Cause I swear that if I have to spend any more time around them than necessary; I might honestly have to kill myself."

It's scares him because he's still not entirely certain whether She's joking or not when She makes such comments. "Course not," He tells Her earnestly. "You can stay as long as you want, whenever you want... You and me, okay?"

They lie there on top of one another, legs intertwined, Her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. They speak of things, little things, unimportant things but for the most part they are silent, content to rest in the safety of one another's warmth.

And when She shivers from the night chill, he pulls the sides of his open cardigan across Her back and buttons it closed around them.

* * *

><p>The first time he realizes that She might like him back, is when he is finally tricked into having a conversation about Her with the cock sucker.<p>

In retrospect, he should have about turned the moment he saw the woman standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed from head to toe in full Stepford wife battle regalia, a cigarette smoking between her fingers. However, he is tired and thirsty and covered in sweat after an hour long run. Furthermore, no one is expected to have their guard up at eight o'clock in the morning.

On a normal Monday at such a godforsaken hour, he would be out on the curb already, headphones on full blast while the big yellow school bus turns the corner onto his street. Class has been suspended for a few days however, on the account of him blowing up several lockers and maiming at least a dozen of his peers.

He's not in the least bit sorry about it, about them. It's remarkable the things that can slip through the gaps in one's conscience after a life time spent numbing the pain. What he feels can hardly be described as remorse, it's more paranoia coupled with fear. He really doesn't want Her to find out. He did it for Her, to help Her, but he knows that Her strong sense of moral justice would prevent Her from being grateful.

The cock sucker interrupts his brooding thoughts with a careless comment about how he is usually still upstairs at such an hour, pretending as though he can sleep like a normal person. When he doesn't answer, she walks across the room towards the island, her heels clicking languorously off the tiled floor beneath her. For a time when he was younger, he used to admire her effortless grace, but now it feels calculated and tedious, like she's preforming before a camera.

"The school rang to say that you'll be going back on the Wednesday," she says as she sits down. "They better catch that son of a bitch responsible or I swear, with the Lord as my witness, there will be hell to pay. I bet'cha it was one of them Irish American terrorist types. They're never happy unless they're blowing a hole in something."

He has to fight the grin threatening to form on his face. Part of him wonders what she would do if she knew the truth. It would hurt her, undoubtedly, and he likes that, but she might also try to get him locked away again.

With one glance at dark shadows beneath his eyes, she sighs. "You better ask the Doctor to increase your sleeping medication again, Tate. You look like you've been up all night."

He looks irritably over his glass at her. One of the more unforgivable things about the cock sucker, is that she pretends to take an interest in his welfare. "Maybe the reason why I look like shit, _mother,_ is because physical training tends to do that to people,"

This makes her double take. "Are you... Are you running Track again?"

The hope in her voice is enough to make his stomach turn. With one hand, he indicates to his choice of footwear and pours himself another glass of water.

"We'll need to get you a new kit then-" Whereas he is a master of deceit, she is the expert of avoidance. Not once since he burned his old one, has she mentioned it too him. Maybe because she is afraid that if she names it, then she might have to take some responsibility for it, _for him_. "-And I better pick up some candied violets from the Korean to put on some cupcakes for Violet," she finishes with a decided nod.

The glass stops inches away from his lips. He stares across at the woman with angry suspicion.

"What does She have to do with it?" In truth, She has everything to do with it, but it worries him that the cock sucker might have picked up on this, that his carefully guarded thoughts might be, in reality, transparent.

"Well, I was telling her about you being in Track-"

"What_ else_ did you tell Her?"

"Oh nothing about your _problems, _don't you worry your pretty little head," she assures him in a disparaging tone. "But if you go around manhandling her like you did the other day, she's gonna find out."

It is one of those rare, conflicting moments in which his hatred towards the woman is overshadowed with just the slight tinge of gratitude. He quickly stomps it out however, and reminds himself that the cock sucker's silence on the subject is not out of any real feelings of maternal love towards him, but from shame. In her twisted world of fame and beauty, imperfection, whether physical or mental, is inexcusable.

"You're taken with one another other," she goes on. "I think even more so than I was with your swine of father at your age— What? _Didn't you realize?_" She laughs at his stunned expression and shakes her head. "Good lord, you men wouldn't know a good thing if it hit you in the head. I've seen the way you look at one other when she's over, like you're safe guarding secrets-"

As the cock sucker launches into a speech about the evils of premarital sex, he stares down at the glass in his hand with dumb surprise. Maybe it's because he's been too preoccupied with securing Her good opinion, that it's never occurred to him before that She might already like him.

He does not understand why She would, he doesn't even like himself. As far as he's concerned, there's nothing about him to like; he is twisted and cruel, with a darkness to him that hides beasts too terrible to name. But then She is all that is light, and the light can be just as cruel; when angry it ravages and burns with an unforgiving intensity.

If only there was a way to check without having to overstep any verbal or physical boundaries. He's terrified that if he does act on this notion, it will make things awkward between them and then She might not want to speak with him anymore. But if he doesn't, and She does like him, She might grow tired of waiting.

"...She's _different_." He allows himself to say as the cock sucker reaches the end of her self righteous tirade.

From across the island, she takes a long, luxurious drag of her cigarette. "You don't see much of her kind around these days," she nods in agreement. "Most girls her age are too busy flashing their midriff like them prostitutes you see in music videos... She reminds me of myself in ways-"

A sharp pain jolts him back to reality. All at once he remembers where he is, and with _whom_ he is having a conversation. The cock sucker stares down at his bleeding hand in shock.

"Let me get-"

"**Shut up.**"

Another word from her, about Her, and he really will snap. She sits there in silence, watching with _feigned_ concern as he throws the broken glass in the trash, and then rinses his hand underneath the cold tap. It stings but the cuts aren't deep, no need for stitches there. If he wasn't so furious, he would probably laugh at the woman's ability to provoke even his subconscious into a violent reaction.

They are nothing alike, she and Her, nor will they ever be.

But as he goes to leave, she decides to speak again. "May God have mercy on the fool who tries to get between you two."

He forces himself to look over his shoulder, even though he knows that he shouldn't. Really, he should just run up the stairs, away from her poisoned words. But look he does, and he is rewarded with a grim, knowing smile.

"I was ready to butcher the little bitch that came between me and your father, and you are very much my son whether you want to admit it or not."

And he hates her because she said it. He hates her because she still dares to compare herself with him even after all this time, after all that's transpired between them.

But most of all he hates her because he knows that she's right.

* * *

><p>The first time he kisses Her is in an empty alleyway beside the movie theatre on the Tuesday afternoon.<p>

It's certainly not a romantic location, but it's closer to reality than any sun kissed pier or candlelit dinner table will ever be.

After debating with himself for hours following his conversation with the cock sucker, he finally decides that kissing is the only way to really discover where exactly it is he stands with Her. That and he really wants to, even if he only gets to do it once.

He catches Her unawares, while She's walking along the sidewalk on Her way to meet him, and true to his original plan, he grabs Her by the mouth from behind, drags Her into the alley and pushes Her up against the wall.

She's not impressed in the least when She realizes that it's him, but before She can berate him for being an asshole, he has Her lips against his own.

He tries to be as gentle as his raging hormones will let him. He doesn't wrap his arms around Her or bury his fingers in Her hair like he wants to. He's afraid more than anything that he might scare Her away, or worse, break Her. He does, however, allow himself the liberty of gently grazing the tip of his nose against Her cheek as he pulls away.

She looks up at him with neither anger or fear, but with pleasant surprise.

"I scared you," he says triumphantly. Up close Her irises are a rich hazel, almost carmel in color. He's never noticed before and it fascinates him. He wants to study every single inch of Her face with utmost care, just to see if there are anymore details left to be uncovered.

"As if."

"..._Really?_" He's smiling now, beaming in fact. She's not afraid of him, at least not of the surface and the shallow layers resting beneath it. In time he wonders just how many he will be able to peel back for Her, and what She will say when She sees what really lies there.

But that is not a question for here and now. He watches, captivated, as She tilts Her head back with a sigh. She's smiling though when She brings Her eyes back to meet his.

"So do I have to pretend to be one of those lame girls who cry into their boyfriend's sweater every time a monster comes on screen?"

It's only then that he realizes just how foolish all his previous fears have been; She does like him. If it were at all possible, his smile grows even larger.

"Of course not," he tells Her seriously. "You should never feel afraid of anything when you're with me." And he means it, he really does. He will protect Her from all of that, even if it means letting his own monsters out to play. "So— _Are we? _You know...?"

It delights him to no end that She used the word "boyfriend", not mere "date" or friend. He still needs to check though, just to be sure.

"Why not?" She shrugs. "Steph and Mom seem to think that we are, so we might as well make it official." But there's a light flush to Her cheeks which suggests that She's just as happy with the idea as he is. "... It was taking you so long, for awhile there I thought that you might be gay-" His face darkens much to Her great amusement. "-but then I realized that you're just one contrary bastard."

"C'mon, admit it; you like it."

But before She can answer, he's kissing Her again and She's kissing back, which is really a much better response than words.

_To be continued..._

* * *

><p>AN: Why hello there fangirls...

Gotta love Tate's divide and conquer tactics; Realize that you've made her conflicted about both of her parents, so what do you do next? Get her to come to you!

Once again thank you all for reading and for all the wonderful feedback so far. As always, I would encourage you to sign so that I can write you a response. I like to do that as many of you already know.


	7. Do it Clean

Sucker Love

"Chapter Six"

"Do It Clean"

The first time he has to lie about what he did for Her is on Wednesday back at school.

There is no hint of what is to come when he arrives at Westfield. His morning is a peaceful one, unmarred by incident or accusation. He passes through the now infamous corridor once on his way to English Lit. It's packed with curious observers but there's nothing left of the fire, nothing to interest him at least. A fresh lick of paint, lino flooring and a new row of bold, blue lockers is all it takes to cover over the evidence. The smell is still there however; it lingers in the air like an unwanted visitor.

But artificial forms can be duplicated, and scent too eventually fades; scars, however, run deep. His mark is a part of them now, forever carved and burned into their skin like the brand of a hellish beast. The injuries his peers sport are not excessive in his opinion- certainly not unlawful- not in light of the overall gains the firework incident has brought Her. From a tactician's standpoint, collateral damage is necessary.

Not everyone sees it this way of course. They're angry because they do not understand. It doesn't bother him, he doesn't need them to understand. What he needs is for them to believe in the human skin he hides in. For the most part, he is certain that they do. Their general lack of interest in him in the aftermath of the firework assures him that nothing will come of it, that it will take more than a haphazard witch hunt to catch him.

So when Principal Figgins asks him, as part of the school's ongoing inquires, for the reason why he was holding a lighter in the seconds before the explosion, his faith in human ignorance is shattered.

"_**What?**__"_

Immediately, he knows that he has reacted badly. A meaningful look passes between the two parent representatives of the board of governors. They turn to him with renewed interest, their pens lie abandoned, their hands, clasped before them in heavy fists. As panic begins to build in his chest, he reminds himself once more of all he has to lose.

So he sets his sights on the one board member who is not eyeing up him like a smoking gun, Principal Figgins. He gives the man a sheepish smile and then asks in polite, slightly incredulous disbelief if he would mind repeating himself. Figgins is more than happy to oblige. As he talks, his words are still as unaffected by suspicion as they were the first time he spoke. It's a comfort to know that he still believes him to be incapable of violence.

"I don't smoke," he tells him once he is done. Figgins nods distractedly and pats his glistening forehead with a spotted handkerchief.

"He never asked you that-" Mrs Mueller's eyes linger on Mr Greenwell's as she speaks. The man pushes backwards in his chair, his head cocked to the side as he eyes him up. "-We just want to know what you were doing with a lighter in your hand at the time."

"What would I be doing?"

"That's what we'd like to know, Tate," Mr Greenwell folds his arms across his gigantic chest with a sigh. "Nowanswer the damn question."

"Sorry..." He scratches the back of his neck. "I'm just confused. I mean, why would I have a lighter when I don't smoke? Coach'd kill me if he caught me with one. Did you hear what he did to Andrew Meyers when he caught him with matches last year?" he goes on quickly before any of them can speak. "It was a double period and it was raining. Coach made him run laps, nonstop, until the poor guy's legs gave out from underneath him. Andrew doesn't even play sports, can you imagine what he'd do to _me?_"

"Are you on the football team?" The skepticism in Mr Greenwell's voice is more amusing than insulting. "Reserves?"

He shakes his head. "I run Track."

"Tate is the star of Westfield's 3K," Principal Figgins pipes up rather proudly.

"A runner, eh?" The man gives him the once over once more, and decides he likes what he sees. "You've got that look about you alright. What's your personal best?"

"Em, seven minutes and twenty one seconds," he replies. Greenwell lets out a low whistle of approval. "Coach thinks I might qualify for the CIF State this year if I'm lucky."

"With that record, you'll more than qualify." Greenwell shoots him a broad, open smile, all of his former suspicion seemingly forgotten. "I played football in my time and my son, Kyle now plays quarterback for Westfield. He told me that Adamski is pretty hard on you Track and Field kids."

He nods. "Yeah, he's kind of a puritan- Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. Really good at motivating you and all, but..." He flashes them a guilty smile. "He'd have me living on bread and water, and praying to Jesse Owens every night, know what I'm saying?" This time Greenwell laughs.

After that, the interrogation collapses into a relaxed discussion about sport. The two men in his audience listen keenly as he ensnares them with his illusion of the All American Boy. It doesn't take much to convince either him or Principal Figgins: One is a sports enthusiast, the other an administrator; their common interest lies in success.

But throughout his talk of trophies, strategies and training schedules, She is the only thing that is on his mind. Whoever snitched on him may have already spread the word around the school, but then again, this will not matter if he is able to convince the adults of his innocence. He's confident that Figgins will not shaft him; he is far too valuable an asset for Westfield to lose. What worries him however, is that She might reject him if or when She finds out about it. Now that he has Her, he doesn't know if he will be able to let Her go. He's not sure if he could cope.

"So you'll be bringing home that trophy for us next month then, Tate," Principle Figgins puts the lid back on his pen and closes over his notebook as he prepares to close the interview. "The meet against Crenshaw is on the 25th, isn't it?"

He nods in reply, and gives himself an invisible pat on the back. For the small price of looking like a sport's obsessed lunatic, he has successfully managed to deflect their question and completely derail the original topic.

"Yeah! We're-"

"You still haven't answered the question."

Mrs Mueller's harsh, clear voice echos all the way up to the grey and blue banners hanging from the gym ceiling. Throughout his performance, her rakishly pencilled on eyebrows remained furrowed, her lips pursed in a thin, angry line. At one point, he'd even tried to flash her a smile but she did not return it. Her animosity perplexes him; he's usually good with women.

Greenwell rolls his eyes at the Principal who shrugs. "Weren't you listening?" he tells her. "The kid's got too much going for him. Do you really think he'd screw up his chances by pulling a stunt like that?"

She clicks her tongue off the top of her mouth and crosses her legs. "Since when have teenagers ever believed in consequences? Harry, you have boys yourself. You know as well as I do that they all go through a pyromania phase at sometime or another. The point of the matter is this, Mr Langdon, you were_ seen_ with a lighter in your hand."

"I've already explained it to you, I don't smoke. Is this because of my attack a few weeks ago?" he then asks with a suddenness that catches them all off guard. "Is that it? Is that why you think I'd have one? Listen, I-I-I know- I know what people are saying about me. I'm not deaf. Lately it's feels like everyone's been trying to pin stuff on me because of my... _problem_."

"No one's trying to pin anything on you!" Figgins reacts instantaneously. He watches with secret satisfaction as the man casts his female colleague a warning look. "Tate, we just want to know what happened...Tate? Are you okay?"

He pretends not to hear him. He sits there, miserable, staring down at his hands, his shoulders slumped. They are waiting for him to answer. He will not keep them waiting for long but delicate matters such as these rely on expert timing. Biting his lip, he runs his hands through his curly hair and mentally he begins to count backwards; Nine...eight...seven...six...five... four... three... two... one..._And so the lie begins..._

"I've got social anxiety disorder," He begins in a voice that has been broken by shame. "I get nervous even being in a room with people I don't know. It's pathetic, I know, but I can't help it. They've got me on medication for it, and _usually_ I remember to take it, but that day I...," he gulps down a breath as the bloody weeping images threaten to swallow him whole. To see them again, unfurled across his memory like a roll of film is strangely cathartic. "I had to get outta there, you understand?" Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet their faces. "I couldn't handle it. I freaked out."

It's probably the most honest thing he has said since entering the room. Principal Figgins regards him with a mixture of pity and understanding. Both Greenwell and Mueller are confused however, they look to the other man for an explanation.

"There was an incident a few weeks ago involving Tate and no one else," he tells them. "Unfortunately however, some people in this school have decided to give him a tough time over it. Kids, you know?"

"They blame me for everything-" It doesn't take much to get the crocodile tears going, all he has to do is imagine losing Her. "-Even this. I know that someone's been spreading a rumor around that I did it, but I didn't think that anyone would actually believe it-" Mrs Mueller wiggles uncomfortably in her chair. "-I get it, they don't know me and since, well, since the window- It's just, I helped carry Kevin Gedman outta there. Why would I help someone if I was guilty? I would have ran away and just left him there."

The sudden tenseness in the air when he finishes is suffocating. They don't look at him, instead they look to one another, their expressions twisted with shock and disbelief.

Something has changed.

Once more, panic rears its ugly head. His hands tremble, sweat trickles down the back of his neck. For a moment there he had them all, and now he has lost them again. He cannot believe it, his story was perfect, his delivery, sincere and unassuming. This is it for him, the end of the line; he is going to lose Her now for good.

"How come you never mentioned Kevin Gedmen before?" Mrs Mueller asks with renewed distrust.

And just like that, everything stops. All his scheming, all his lies, the persona, Track, even _Her_; It all simply vanishes from his mind. He stares at Mrs Mueller in genuine confusion, unsure of what to think or do or say.

"...Because you guys started asking me about some lighter I was supposedly holding before I could finish?" he offers.

"We've spoken to him already. He never mentioned it."

He wipes his face dry and leans back in his chair, his arms folded, his lower jaw jutted and defiant. "Well, I did. You can ask Amir Stanley if you like. The two of us carried him out to the ambulance. He was pretty messed up, so I'm not surprised that he didn't tell you. He probably can't even remember. When the locker door blew off, it hit 'em square in the forehead. He could barely walk straight, kept on talking about how he needed to tune his guitar."

"The lockers here are all made from recycled materials. I highly doubt they could cause any_ real _damage-" Mr Greenwell lets out an angry grunt which she ignores. "-Did Kevin speak to you at all this morning? Have you seen him?"

"No," He arches an eyebrow. "Did something happen to him?"

She sucks in a sharp breath. "Do you know the identity of the person who reported you?"

It takes less than a second for him to piece it all together. "Huh? No. Wait! Are you saying that Kevin...?" he trails off in disbelief. "Are you serious? The guy was hit in the head!"

From across the table, Greenwell shoots him a grin.

"Carol," Principal Figgins sighs impatiently. "Kevin could have easily projected Tate's face onto the perpetrator because of his injury. I can vouch for Tate's character, as will any other member of the staff here at Westfield; We have_ never _had a problem with him."

"I'm with Ben on this one," Mr Greenwell adds his voice to the mounting pressure. "For God's sake, do you have any idea just how serious a single knock to the head can be? I've seen what it does to people, even been on the receiving end of one once or twice. That Kevin kid told us himself that he had to get a CAT scan while he was in hospital. He ain't a reliable witness, Carol."

But she shakes her head. "Kevin swore that he remembers everything perfectly. I'm sure if we ask he for the results of his scan then-"

"Have you stopped to think that maybe your own personal interest in this might be clouding your overall judgement?" Figgins snaps. "There's more than one name on that list, remember that."

Her face goes very white.

He is let go not long after that. Greenwell gives him a handshake, along with a hearty promise to come and see him run. Mrs Mueller, on the other hand, refuses to look at him as he bids them goodbye. Despite his initial mistake, it all went very smoothly. He didn't even have to lie outwardly for them to believe him, they did all that work for themselves. After all, most people are willing to deceive, and in turn be deceived, for fear of what they might find lurking underneath.

* * *

><p>The first time he lies to Her outrightly is on that very same Wednesday afternoon. He doesn't like doing it. He was hoping that he wouldn't have to, but circumstances demand it.<p>

After he leaves the interview, he finds himself caught between a conflicting desire to smash Kevin Gedmen's face in, and his need to find Her. Luckily for Kevin, he runs into Her first.

They meet just as She is leaving Her Spanish class. To his great relief, nothing seems amiss when She sees him. In fact, She greets him with a beautiful smile and a kiss. He decides then and there not to tell Her about the interview, Mrs Mueller or even Kevin Gedmen. He doesn't want Her to worry, or worse, make Her hate him.

However, he does need to get Her away from the Westfield and its rumor mill. At least until he figures out who he is going to frame for the firework, and what he is going to do about Kevin. The longer the crime goes unpunished, the longer he will remain a suspect.

It doesn't take much to convince Her to ditch school. Like him, She is easily bored by its cruel monotony. All he has to do is offer to take Her to some secret place far away, one that She has never seen before.

It's late afternoon by the time they reach the Sunken City in San Pedro. Armed with cold bags of Chinese Take Away, they march over the lumpy grass, an arm clasped around one another's side, and out over the broken building foundations and buckled sidewalks that jut along the cliff edge.

It warm, despite it being late October. He ties his sweater around his waist and jumps from concrete slab to concrete slab, while She sits on the ground below, eating spring rolls and smoking like a caterpillar. They shoot sarcastic barbs and quotes at one another, and snigger at the barely legible graffiti and name tags that cover the crumbling face of the ruins.

It isn't long before he completely forgets all about his original reason for being there. It's not surprising, when he's with Her, all of his worries just fade into nothingness. He is free to relax and be a form of himself that he does not often show.

"I wish I had my camera," She laments for the umpteenth time. "You look like that gigantic statue of Jesus they have in Rio de Janeiro."

From on top of a slab that has been artfully deposited upon a boulder by the 1929 landslide, he spreads his arms out even wider, tilts his head back and bellows Tool into the wind, "_I d__o uuun-to oth-eers, what has been done to me... I do uuun-to oth-eers, what has been done to me! _That comes from the bible, you know that?" He turns his head to look at Her. "Matthew 7:12. "Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them". Old English makes everything sound way cooler."

"For poetry, maybe," She replies dryly. "But I doubt Prison Sex would have made quite as big an impact if it had been written Bill Shakespeare style."

Chuckling to himself, he takes a few steps back on the slab, runs, jumps into the air, and then lands in a crouched ball, beside Her on the sandy earth. She shoves him over, he catches Her arm, rice flies up into the air as he pulls Her down on top of him.

"Promise me that you'll never order Kung Pao anything ever again," She tells him when he pulls away from their kiss. "Your breath sinks like dog's breath-" He grins and deliberately blows in Her face, only to stop when She smacks him lightly.

After awhile She grows restless. She sits up and brushes the dust from Her red lace dress. "...You totally won't believe what someone said to me today," She casts him a quick glance from beneath Her dark eyelashes.

He sits up to full attention. "Who?" he asks, trying to keep his tone as natural as possible.

"Some moron," She shrugs. "I'm not sure what year he's in, probably yours. His name is Kevin. Anyway Steph and I were laughing about it for ages after-"

"Kevin Gedmen?"

She nods once and his heart stops. "So he actually had the balls to come up to you and say it to your face?" She shakes Her head in disgust. "What a dick. I told him that he'd mistaken you for someone else. He didn't handle _that_ too well, I can tell you."

"He didn't- He didn't hurt you, did he?" The monsters howl and rage against their confinements. If Kevin so much as touched Her, he will blow a crater in his skull.

"No- Tate, are you okay?" Her brow creases with concern. "You seem a little freaked."

"I'm fine," he winces at the harshness in his tone. "Sorry. Kevin's been pissing me off lately."

"You and me both." Without a word, She reaches over to him, shoves Her hand in his pocket and takes out his zippo. Suddenly he wishes he had thrown the damn thing away.

"Did he tell you that he was hit in the head during the blast?" His eyes dart nervously from Her frowning face to the offending item.

She flips back the lid and strikes down on the wheel once with Her thumb. There's a faint "_zoomph"_ as the wick sparks into life. "No, but I figured as much. I saw the stitches," Then She looks at him with a smile. "I told him to go and check lost property for his brain. Pass my cigs, would you?"

Not only does he pass them to Her, he takes one out and gently places it between Her lips for Her to light. She takes Her usual half drag, snaps the zippo shut and hands it back to him.

"...You know that I wouldn't do something like that," he says after a pause. _"Right?"_

She tilts Her head to the side in an almost sympathetic gesture. "Of course," She assures him. "You're a good person. Good people don't go around blowing up lockers just for the hell of it-"

But he's not good, he's really not. It pains him to think that the same vulnerability he faked in front of the Board of Governors, comes so naturally to him when he's with Her. It's different though, it's not an act. He genuinely does become that boy. The one who's always quick to smile and light up Her cigarette, or simply be there to lead an ear whenever the world becomes too much. She brings out the best in him, the parts that have laid hidden for so long. The ones that he did not even know existed until She came along.

"-Besides," She goes on. "Everyone's saying that some guy by the name of Jason Mueller did it-What's so funny?" She demands as he doubles over, roaring with laughter.

It takes a few moments to compose himself, and when he does, he has a large grin on his face and a ingenious plan forming in his mind.

"Nothing," he lies. "Hey, whaddya say we come here next time there's a storm? We'll set up a lightning rod on top of the cliff. You can bring your camera along."

"Why don't we tie ourselves to a train track while we're at it?" She replies sarcastically.

"You scared?"

She rolls Her eyes. With one hand, She tucks Her hair behind Her ears before lying down again, Her head resting on his stomach.

"We'll have to find out how much they cost," She warns. "I doubt they're cheap."

Smiling cheerfully to himself, he rubs his hand up and down Her arm. All things considered, maybe he can be a good person sometimes, but it's only when he's with Her. Soon though, he will have to do something bad again, something that She will not like, but then again, the only reason why he's going to do it is for Her...

So really, it can't be _that_ bad after all.

* * *

><p>The first time he meets the woman responsible for ruining Her family is at Doctor Harmon's office on the Thursday.<p>

Initially, he thinks the Beverly Hills 90210 extra with the scrunchie bun auburn hair, fitted Levis and black blazer is just another one of the man's patients. This quickly charges however, when the girl leans in to give Doctor Harmon what looks to be a very one sided and awkward kiss.

But when the man does not push her away, the monster nearly rips right out of his chest and goes for him right then and there. It takes a few moments for him to calm it, to remind it that in this case an act of violent retribution might only make things worse. The woman, he assumes, is a new one, although he cannot say that he is too surprised by this discovery.

Then it hits him; this might be the ideal moment to tell Her about his connection to Her father. If anything, the news of his continuing extramarital affairs might distract Her, and therefore make Her less mad at him. But as he toys with the idea of finding the nearest pay phone, Doctor Harmon spots him.

"Ah Tate! You're early," says the man with no small amount of relief.

The woman casts an irritated glance over her shoulder. On closer inspection, he decides that her neat facial features and slender form are much akin to that of a harpy. Her face is all sweetness but her claws are showing.

"If you're busy, we can cancel." His eyes never once leave the woman's.

Doctor Harmon misinterprets the angry intensity of his stare for a desire to become acquainted with her. "This is-"

"I'm his wife," she cuts in.

"...Nice to meet you, _Mrs _Harmon."

She arches an eyebrow. "Do I look like I bake for the church fête? Please, call me Hayden."

The look of horror on Doctor Harmon's face is priceless. It's a wonder what might be going through the man's head as he stands there, trapped between the layers of his duel lives; the ghost of his past and the office of the new life he has painstakingly tried to patch together. From the confidence in her proclamation, it is clear that Hayden has no intention of exiting it quietly by the backstage door.

He gives her stomach a quick inspection, just to check if she is the same woman who was on the phone just days before, and then idly wonders to himself how hard it would be to frame Doctor Harmon for double homicide. The thought so vanishes when he remembers how sad She was when She spoke to him about Her still born brother.

"You'll miss your flight." says the man as he rubs a nervous hand across his lips.

Hayden does not leave, not immediately. She turns to face her lover with a look of pure adoration in her eyes that almost makes him want to heave.

"Don't I get a goodbye kiss? I won't see you for awhile."

"I have a patient waiting."

"..._For real?" _But when Doctor Harmon makes no move otherwise, she stomps her foot like an overgrown child. _"_Fine! I'll see you in four weeks."

"Bye Mrs Harmon— I mean Hayden!" he calls after her as she storms down the corridor.

Once inside the office, Doctor Harmon turns to him immediately.

"She's not my wife. She's...she's a very mixed up girl."

"I know that it's none of my business, but do your family know about her?" he asks casually. "You've got a wedding ring on your finger," he explains at the man's alarmed expression.

Doctor Harmon casts a distracted downward glance at the thick gold band. "Yes, I do... They know," he then adds hastily, as though he's trying to convince himself more than anything else. "She's— we're nothing. Not in _that_ way. She's just projecting fantasies onto me— Have you been taking your medication?"

He lets it slide, because maybe, with the doctor's current guilty mindset, he might be able to make some ground breaking progress. So he abandons his thoughts of calling Her. He'll leave that for another day, or maybe he won't have to tell Her at all if everything goes according to plan.

"Yep."

He has, religiously. He doesn't want another incident to happen again. Now that they're dating, She might need him at any time and he cannot let Her down. But before the doctor can move on to the next question, he allows himself to say, "You really _do_ have all types of crazies coming to you."

The man casts him a grateful smile, and he offers him a small, compassionate one in return. True, the monster's skills are not as sophisticated as the devil's. They are brutal creatures of blood and steel, lacking in the grace and finesse that only a former heavenly servant can possess. Still, their arts and allurements are much alike, for the monster must also prey on weakness, grab opportunities, and above all, keep its claws hidden beneath the cloak of humanity.

"Any suicidal thoughts?"

At the shake of his head, Doctor Harmon scribbles something down in his notes. With all his fanatical zeal about honor suicides lately, it is unsurprising to hear that the man assumes he is thinking about killing himself. Such an arrogant presumption annoys him however. Not only does it show that his best laid plans have so far failed, but that the doctor, for all his degrees and published Psychiatry books, does not understand a single thing about him. Not for the first time does he wonder what there is written about him in his file.

Doctor Harmon looks up, his face serious.

"...What about the other ones?"

"You mean the ones where I want kill people? No," he lies. So far this week, it is a sure tie between Kevin Gedmen and Hayden, not to mention the regulars. "Those pills you gave me must be really helping. These talks help too. I think you're right. I think I'm getting better."

The man's face breaks into a wide, encouraging smile. "I've said it once and I'll say it again; Anyone can get better, Tate. You just have to want to. So last week we continued to discuss your relationship with your father-" Once again, Doctor Harmon has drawn the wrong conclusion from their sessions. "-Do you want to continue exploring this aspect of your life, or is there something else you wish to talk about?"

Never before has the man given him an option to choose, at least he's never verbally mentioned it. Normally the doctor allows him to dictate the topic. He is just the fish that follows whatever stream of thought his patient wishes to explore. At most he will only try to steer it into deeper waters with a few carefully constructed questions. It is in this choice, that he finds his first real victory. The fact that the man is asking means that he _is_ finally getting to him at long last.

Grinning inwardly, he settles back on the day bed, determined to make this one hour the most uncomfortable Doctor Harmon has ever experienced in his life.

"I remembered another thing this week," he begins with. "His kids, you know the twins I told you about? I've never seen them but I'm pretty sure that they turned ten this year. See, I reckon my Dad got that maid pregnant, and _that's_ why he ran away with her. Honestly, I'm kinda relieved that it happened when I was six and not now, ten years later. Parents who've got teenage children and have affairs are just _sick_..."

* * *

><p>AN: Oh sweet Jesus! THANK GOD THAT IT OVER! I will fix any mistakes in the coming days, please bear with the typos for now. Seriously, this chapter made me want to cry with frustration.

Em.. Important news below so please read:

**Sucker Love** now has an **audio** **version**. **Jandjsalmon** recorded herself reading it and put it up online for everyone to hear. **There's a direct link to it on my profile**. I can take no credit for this as it was all her idea, so anyone who listens to it and loves it make sure to write a comment below the audio! Seriously, check it out! If anyone else wants to send me anything they've done with this in mind, let me know and I'll share it.

Now to answer two questions that I keep getting;

This story will be roughly twenty chapters long. Yeah. It's got a lot of different story lines running within it as you all can already see.

Everything will be told through Tate's perspective. Although the Violate pairing is one of the main focal points, first and foremost this story is about Tate.

Kevin and some other important characters will be coming in next chapter. I was going to originally introduce them in chapter seven but then WAAAAY too much would be going on so I decided to settle with set up instead. Sorry for taking so long but I really am a bit of a freak when it comes to depicting things. Next chapter won't be nearly half as long a wait, I swear!

Now remember to sign in so that I can write you a reply!


End file.
